“Sorry I broke your music machine.”
“I'm so sorry-I broke you moose?”
“Jazz is the folk music of the machine age.”
“It was a miserable machine, an inefficient machine, she thought, the human apparatus for painting or for feeling; it always broke down at the critical moment; heroically, one must force it on.”
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding very sorry at all. “I… well, nevermind.”“Nevermind?” I couldn’t help but sneer. “You just broke into my uncle’s lighthouse. Don’t you tell me to nevermind.”
“Keep time! How sour sweet music is when time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives. I wasted time and now doth time waste me.”