“Someday I want to write a sixteen-syllable Haiku about the death and disappearance of a monosyllabic word.”

“Our relationship is like ten turtles marching along, followed by seven beetles, with each carrying one monosyllabic word on its back. You might call that a haiku, but I call it love.”

“Even if there were only seventeen syllables left in the universe, I still don’t think The Mythical Mr. Boo would write a haiku. Especially not if those syllables were groups of “oh,” “no,” “ah,” “ouch,” “ugh,” “eek,” and “shit!”

“I would hate to see seventeen people with monosyllabic names like Mike or Ann die, but if they did, and you wrote down all their names in groups of 5-7-5, you'd have one tragic haiku.”

“I want to write a story about an asexual unicycle who refuses to let a unicorn ride it.”

“If pens doubled as bullets, I bet few writers would want to write about war.”

“I want to drown in all the ink used to write positive things about my clone and how great he is.”