Repetition is the death of art.

Happiness just wasn't part of the job description back then. You tried to find a helpmate to keep the cold wind and dogs at bay. Happiness just wasn't part of the equation. Survival was.

My masculinity isn't hinged on whether or not I knit.

The fact that when we die we are nothing more than worm meat---I just don't think about it.

I live in the present due to the constraints of the Space-Time Continuum.

It's noble to want to confess, but if the results are just damage and pain, that's not noble. It's selfish.