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“What a fucking tapestry woven by mad and sensitive egos; sometimes, the flatulence of words blows the intention out the window, but it is just a few steps backwards. I get so near to getting into detail about people and things, then like a pinball machine, my thoughts bang off sideways to some other peg and hang there for a nanosecond only to be tossed on somewhere else. Where is that still, quiet place of examination?” — Gordon Roddick
What a fucking tapestry woven by mad and sensitive egos; sometimes, the flatulence of words blows the intention out the window, but it is just a few steps backwards. I get so near to getting into detail about people and things, then like a pinball machine, my thoughts bang off sideways to some other peg and hang there for a nanosecond only to be tossed on somewhere else. Where is that still, quiet place of examination?