“There's a hole in my pocket,” Ringo puzzled. “Maybe that's the way out?”

“And then there is, of course, always, and inevitably, this spume of poetry that's just blowing out of the sulphurous flue-holes of the earth. Just masses of poetry. It's unstoppable, it's uncorkable. There's no way to make it end.”

“There's no guarantee that justice will win out or that a noble sacrifice will make any difference. But when it does, there's something that still swells my chest. There's magic in that.... It tells me that's the way things are supposed to be. ”

“My pockets had always puzzled Weena, but at the last she had concluded that they were an eccentric kind of vase for floral decoration.”

“We walk into each other and discover that there's something about our edges that fit. Her points fit into my cracks and my cracks smooth her points. It sounds like one helluva romance novel, but that's the only way I can describe it. We just happen to fall into the same hole. A couple of weeks later we have the names of our children picked out.”

“Colorful characters are the odd shaped pieces that fill the holes in life's puzzle.”