So each had a private little sun for her soul to bask in; some dream, some affection, some hobby, or at least some remote and distant hope.

This planet has - or rather had - a problem, which was this: most of the people living on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of these were largely concerned with the movement of small green pieces of paper, which was odd because on the whole it wasn’t the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy.

She was so much a personality and so little anything else that even staring straight at her he had no idea what she really looked like.

The voice of Love seemed to call to me, but it was a wrong number.

Every night I cuddle with a blob of unbaked clay I fashioned in the shape of a woman. But that’s what being in love is all about.