I’ve heard that it’s quite acceptable and surprisingly fun.

Caught between the moon and New York City.

We all belong to everything.

Ain’t there a pen that will write before they die?

I’m trying for no one else but me.

Wake up, it’s nineteen-eighty-four.

Pity the child who has ambition.

“He’s making violent love to me, Mother!”

Like a drunk, but not.

“I, myself, am… strange and unusual.”