“You can go your whole life collecting days, and none will outweigh the one you wish you had back.”

There is a big confusion in this country over what we want verses what we need you need food. You want a chocolate sundae.

When you’re rotten about yourself, you become rotten to everyone else, even those you love.

Death is the end of a lifetime, not the end of a relationship.

Ends are for yesterday, not tomorrows.

Because one thing God gave us- and I’m afraid it’s at times a little too much- is freewill. Freedom to choose. I believe he gave us everything needed to build a beautiful world, if we choose wisely.

She loved me coming and going, at my worst and at my best. She had a bottomless well of love for me.

Love is how you stay alive, even after you are gone.

No life is a waste. The only time we waste is the time we spend thinking we’re alone.

Each affects the other, and the other affects the next, and the world is full of stories, but the stories are all one.

I give myself a good cry if I need it. But then I concentrate on the good things still in my life. I don’t allow myself any more self-pity than that. A little each every morning, a few tears, and that’s all.

Once heaven is done with grandma, we’d like her back, thanks.

But fates are connected in ways we don’t understand.

When someone is in your heart, they’re never truly gone. They can come back to you, even at unlikely times.

When you come to the end, that’s where God begins.

Heaven is always and forever around us and no soul remembered is ever really gone.

It is far more comforting to think God listened and said no, than to think that nobody’s out there.

The collection of taxes which are not absolutely required, which do not beyond reasonable doubt contribute to public welfare, is only a species of legalized larceny. Under this Republic the rewards of industry belong to those who earn them.

It is good to collect things, but it is better to go on walks.

Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.

Here’s a memory, which like most memories is imperfect and subjective—collected long ago like a beach pebble and slipped into the pocket of my mind.

You can’t tax business. Business doesn’t pay taxes. It collects taxes.

What is man? He’s just a collection of chemicals with delusions of grandeur.

My mind seems to have become a kind of machine for grinding general laws out of large collections of facts.

While choosing a fashion show, I take into consideration the designer and the collection. Then only I said yes to do a show.