Just before sunset, a bright kid asked his fading father:
“If just thinking about something won't make it so,
will something being so make you think about it?”
And along with the heavenly fiery orb, the old man's mind sank below the horizon.

Perhaps as further evidence (if indeed any further be required) of the lack of synchronization between fate and man’s feeble acts, is one gentleman’s complaint that even after all the expense of changing his name to Shakespeare and all the effort of moving to Stratford, the British literary establishment still wouldn’t lend him
fifteen hundred pounds on just his signature.
(“I want to say,” he adds, “What-is-the-world-coming-to!? –  but such a cliché seems so beneath a man of my titular caliber.”)

Upon hearing the meteorologist’s morning weather forecast:
“It starts off cloudy, with thunderstorms on the way, some possibly becoming severe later in the day,” he thought: “Hell, later in the today I'll possibly become severe!”
Every person’s genetic template gives them an overall temperament, about which normal people can do nothing  –  but whine and impotently swear they will change;
though “improbable”  be its name, a select few yet accomplish what is constructively exactly that (more precisely): they achieve change in the upper end of the nervous-system where one’s natural temperament gets consciously registered,
and normally given public expression.
(Potential motto : “Do it to yourself  --  keep it to yourself;
keep it to yourself and thus do it to yourself.”)

Advice from one guy (who seems to have plenty):
“Forget notions of doppelgangers, spiritual-doubles, guardian-angels,
and imaginary-playmates, and focus on the fact that everyone has an unrealized inner-siamese-twin who is a hit-man with but one name on his get-list.
   (One man says he is having one deuce of a time deciding whether his mind is in fact suicidal,
    or if indeed someone does have it in for him?!?)

Most things irrelevant to the revolutionist seem urgent to everyone else.
   (Even if the sky were falling, it doesn’t do so internally on the certain-man.)

Metaphysics On Draft.
Seemingly from out of nowhere, a chap leapt onto the bar,
kicked away the glasses and began tap dancing as he chanted:
“I used to speak in riddles,
but now I talk in rhymes,
I used to live on quarters,
but now I feast on dimes,
I've  never met a thought so pithy
that I could not chop,
nor ever heard a word so weighty
that I could not drop;
Hello! –  my name is NeverMind  –
never, never, never   –   mind, mind, mind.
Next round’s on me boys.”

The ole man, in an apparent attempt to deliver both some practical and metaphorical direction to the kid, one day said:
“Those who serve the wine, never themselves indulge,” to which the lad responded:
    “Are you nuts!  –  every bartender I've ever seen drinks like a horse,”
and the elder staggered backwards, clutching his head in his hands as he screamed in shock and disbelief:
“Are you serious!?”
   (Sometimes the kid has more trouble than at others ascertaining the actual purpose of
     the ole man’s comments, or if in fact they are to even be taken seriously.)

Short, insane ideas that make sense are easier to handle than long complicated ones.

Neptune’s (Apparently Sardonic?) Quote Of The Day.
“Life wouldn’t be near as interesting as it is if everyone didn’t hear the same thing
(while of course believing that they hear different things).”
Is a possum to be considered unusually bright if, when he ponders a rotting carcass,
he proclaims it to be a first edition of the Decameron.

While a voice up front was proclaiming: “We’re all on a fast trip to destruction,”
another in the rear was announcing: “We’re on a slow voyage to paradise,”
and rolling up and down the aisle was a cart offering broken calendars,
and out-dated mirrors for the not-yet committed passengers.

One way the real revolution assures its continuation is by ordinary folk not even knowing it exists.
   (Comforting to a rebel’s ears is hearing city-ites lackadaisically say [while stumbling about
     the fringes of an insurgent camp]: “What is all this craziness!?”)

By the time any idea has become part of collective man’s vernacular,
it is already in a state of decay.
  (One man reports: “I once soared with the eagles  –   but I now sail with the pigs”
    [He says that those of you out-of-the-mud will understand.])

The bright-side of everything is always the right side.
When you say that you can't-go-on  –  you still can;
when you actually can't go on  –  you say nothing.
   (And one man’s thinking adds [sarcastically]: “I really appreciate you pointing that out.”)

Those who love their sleep say that the first rays of sunshine are the worst,
while the revolutionist finds just the reverse.

A son asked a father:
“If nothing that happens in Life disturbs your mind –  are you not then awake!?”
    “You will have to answer that one for yourself.”