“The elevator wasn’t empty; it was full of fragrance. The perfume that lingered smelled like my past. Starting tomorrow, to focus on the future, I’m going to close my nose with a clothespin. One day, probably the day after tomorrow, people may regard me as a fashion visionary. Ah, but that’s life, no?”

“Tomorrow is promised to no man, though I’m under the impression I have an earthly meeting with God on the day after tomorrow. So that’s nice.”

“After a long day of screaming at the trees, I smell like a skyscraper. Would you care to ride on my elevator shaft?”

“I’m like a staircase, she was like an elevator, and our relationship never escalated above friendship. I’d like to think we’ll one day be a couple, but I’m not going to wear a fishbowl on my head and dream about it. That wouldn’t be fair to me, her, or the goldfish I’d be displacing.”

“She called and said she had to cancel tomorrow. “Cancel tomorrow!” I shrieked. “Does that make today the last day, or at midnight tonight will the world just skip over to the day after tomorrow? But wouldn’t that still make it tomorrow?”

“My motto: I’ll do it today, or tomorrow, or the next day, or not.”

“I fear one day I’ll get a knock at my front door, and I’ll answer it to find myself standing there. Then I’ll hear myself say, “Hi, I’m from the future, and I’m here to destroy you.” But that is irrational. The future me isn’t out to destroy me, because the me of my past already did a thorough job demolishing my present and possible future.”