Sign On The Dotted Line Quotes

Have you given any thought to your wedding vows?” Kai snorted. “Delete anything that has to do with love, respect, or joy, and I’ll sign on the dotted line.

Kai snorted. “Delete anything that has to do with love, respect, or joy, and I’ll sign on the dotted line.

Delete anything that has to do with love, respect, or joy and I'll sign in the dotted line.

Instruction would be wasted on me. Just to give me the form and I'll sign on the dotted line.

From the age of 6 I had a mania for drawing the shapes of things. When I was 50 I had published a universe of designs. But all I have done before the the age of 70 is not worth bothering with. At 75 I'll have learned something of the pattern of nature, of animals, of plants, of trees, birds, fish and insects. When I am 80 you will see real progress. At 90 I shall have cut my way deeply into the mystery of life itself. At 100, I shall be a marvelous artist. At 110, everything I create; a dot, a line, will jump to life as never before. To all of you who are going to live as long as I do, I promise to keep my word. I am writing this in my old age. I used to call myself Hokusai, but today I sign my self 'The Old Man Mad About Drawing.

We signed on the dotted line for things we didn't know we cared about. We ate the things we shouldn't, spent money when we couldn't, lost sight of the Earth we had to inhabit and wasted wasted wasted everything.

I'm here. Soon I won't be. Zoey's baby is here. Its pulse tick-ticking. Soon it won't be. And when Zoey comes out of that room, having signed on the dotted line, she'll be different. She'll understand what I already know- that death surrounds us all. And it tastes like metal between you teeth.

It's called restraint, the part that wants to wander is always there, even for straight people. But commitment is commitment. Once I sign on the dotted line, I'll devote myself to that person only.

The kiss is a slow, thorough entrapment like everything else she’s doing—and I let her. I let her fucking own me. I sign my soul over, signature on the dotted line.

If you think that the gospel is all about what we can do, that the practice of it is optional, and that conversion is simply something that anyone can choose at any time, then I'm concerned that you'll think of evangelism as nothing more than a sales job where the prospect is to be won over to sign on the dotted line by praying a prayer, followed by an assurance that he is the proud owner of salvation.

They effectively gave us what amounts to $150 billion, and for what? To buy our assurances that we would stop enriching uranium for a decade? To rent our promise not to build any nuclear warheads? Why would we have said no? The whole thing was a farce. We were not even asked —how does the saying go? —to sign on the dotted line.

People from context cultures tend to view personal bonds and informal agreements as far more binding than any formal contract. People from content cultures don't believe the deal is finalized until everyone has signed on the dotted line. And therein lies the potential for conflict.

History, lie of our lives, mire of our loins. Our sins, our souls. Hiss-tih-ree: the tip of the pen taking a trip of three steps (with one glide) down the chronicle to trap a slick, sibilant character. Hiss. (Ss.) Tih. Ree. He was a pig, a plain pig, in the morning, standing five feet ten on one hoof. He was a pig in slacks. He was a pig in school. He was a pig on the dotted line. But in my eyes it’s always the ones signing dotted lines that become pigs. Did this pig have a precursor? He did, indeed he did. In point of fact, dating all the way back to the Biblical Age. Oh where? About everywhere you look there's pigs giving that fancy ol’ snake a chase. Yeah, yeah, yeah, you can always count on a fuckin’ pretentious sarcastican for a fancy prose style.

Swinging the door open, I took a sip. All of the coffee in the world wouldn't help if more visitors showed up at my door this early in the morning but the caffeine fortification was a bonus. The delivery guy pushed his clipboard at me. I held up my cup and raided my eyebrows. We had an entire conversation in the next seven seconds with our eyes and eyebrows. I told him that I wasn't giving up my coffee for his delivery. He told me that if I'd just sign on the damned dotted line he would get the hell out of here. I replied in turn that if he'd hold the clipboard instead of shoving it at me (I threw in a nod here for good measure), I'd sign the damned line. He finally sighed, turned the clipboard around and held the pen out. I braced the door with my hip, grabbed the pen and scrawled Wilma Flinstone on the paper.

when serpents bargain for the right to squirm and the sun strikes to gain a living wage - when thorns regard their roses with alarm and rainbows are insured against old age when every thrush may sing no new moon in if all screech-owls have not okayed his voice - and any wave signs on the dotted line or else an ocean is compelled to close when the oak begs permission of the birch to make an acorn - valleys accuse their mountains of having altitude - and march denounces april as a saboteur then we’ll believe in that incredible unanimal mankind (and not until)

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece, and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle and rolled back his left shirtcuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally, he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

Don't keep coloring in their lines waiting for them to sign on the dotted... for you will become... ...overdrawn.

Faith in our time can seem like signing on the dotted line of a prefab doctrine composed of absurdities.

We followed the tale laid out for us, the prose pinned down in every square foot of space we’d acquired. We were content with the plot twists that only mildly redirected our lives. We signed on the dotted line for the things we didn’t know we cared about. We ate the things we shouldn’t, spent money when we couldn’t, lost sight of the Earth we had to inhabit and wasted wasted wasted everything. Food. Water. Resources. Soon

Beauty, you can call me whatever you want as long as you’re screaming it.” Before I can even process his actions, he bends down and gives me a quick but deep kiss. When he pulls back and rests his forehead against mine, I know I might as well have just signed on the dotted line. The look he gives me is so full of promise that if I had been wearing underwear, they would have blown up, completely exploded, right from my skin.

Finding a taxi, she felt like a child pressing her nose to the window of a candy store as she watched the changing vista pass by while the twilight descended and the capital became bathed in a translucent misty lavender glow. Entering the city from that airport was truly unique. Charles de Gaulle, built nineteen miles north of the bustling metropolis, ensured that the final point of destination was veiled from the eyes of the traveller as they descended. No doubt, the officials scrupulously planned the airport’s location to prevent the incessant air traffic and roaring engines from visibly or audibly polluting the ambience of their beloved capital, and apparently, they succeeded. If one flew over during the summer months, the visitor would be visibly presented with beautifully managed quilt-like fields of alternating gold and green appearing as though they were tilled and clipped with the mathematical precision of a slide rule. The countryside was dotted with quaint villages and towns that were obviously under meticulous planning control. When the aircraft began to descend, this prevailing sense of exactitude and order made the visitor long for an aerial view of the capital city and its famous wonders, hoping they could see as many landmarks as they could before they touched ground, as was the usual case with other major international airports, but from this point of entry, one was denied a glimpse of the city below. Green fields, villages, more fields, the ground grew closer and closer, a runway appeared, a slight bump or two was felt as the craft landed, and they were surrounded by the steel and glass buildings of the airport. Slightly disappointed with this mysterious game of hide-and-seek, the voyager must continue on and collect their baggage, consoled by the reflection that they will see the metropolis as they make their way into town. For those travelling by road, the concrete motorway with its blue road signs, the underpasses and the typical traffic-logged hubbub of industrial areas were the first landmarks to greet the eye, without a doubt, it was a disheartening first impression. Then, the real introduction began. Quietly, and almost imperceptibly, the modern confusion of steel and asphalt was effaced little by little as the exquisite timelessness of Parisian heritage architecture was gradually unveiled. Popping up like mushrooms were cream sandstone edifices filigreed with curled, swirling carvings, gently sloping mansard roofs, elegant ironwork lanterns and wood doors that charmed the eye, until finally, the traveller was completely submerged in the glory of the Second Empire ala Baron Haussmann’s master plan of city design, the iconic grand mansions, tree-lined boulevards and avenues, the quaint gardens, the majestic churches with their towers and spires, the shops and cafés with their colourful awnings, all crowded and nestled together like jewels encrusted on a gold setting.

To that point, he had always found the vicomtesse overflowing with friendly politeness, that sweet-flowing grace conferred by an aristocratic education, and which is never truly there unless it comes, automatically and unthinkingly, straight from the heart. [...] For anyone who had learned the social code, and Rastignac had absorbed it all in a flash, these words, that gesture, that look, that inflection in her voice, summed up all there was to know about the nature and the ways of men and women of her class. He was vividly aware of the iron hand underneath the velvet glove; the personality, and especially the self-centeredness, under the polished manners; the plain hard wood, under all the varnish. [...] Eugène had been entirely too quick to take this woman's word for her own kindness. Like all those who cannot help themselves, he had signed on the dotted line, accepting the delightful contract binding both benefactor and recipient, the very first clause of which makes clear that, as between noble souls, perfect equality must be forever maintained. Beneficience, which ties people together, is a heavenly passion, but a thoroughly misunderstood one, and quite as scarce as true love. Both stem from the lavish nature of great souls.

i don’t care what you see, or what you say. path of love’s a pipe dream anyway. my daimon turns demon from today now i want the glory and finer things. sell my soul, the owner, the highest bid reap the things you sow, i’m a change my ways. now watch me transform to a higher place your love’s a thorn, the roses now decay. so i— sign on the dotted line Satan’s paper signed Lucifer’s bonfire warming up my desire i want the vanity — i want the money, the women this is the bourgeoise rhapsody

Oh my God,” Jenna murmured, just as I said, “Holy hell weasel,” under my breath. I won’t repeat what Archer said. Someone in the crowd-I think it was Taylor-shouted, “But the school is closed. Everyone was saying…” Her voice trailed off, and one of the faeries piped up, her voice higher and clear. “You have no right to bring us here. The Fae are no longer in alliance with the rest of Prodigium. On behalf of the Seelie court, I demand you send us home.” Ah. That was Nausicaa. She was the only one of the faeries that talked like she was rehearsing a play. Next to me, Jenna leaned in closer and said, “The Fae broke their alliance? Did you know that?” I shook my head just as Mrs. Casnoff pinned Nausicaa with a glare. No matter how feeble she seemed, she could still throw one heck of a dirty look. “Alliances and treaties have no meaning here at Hecate Hall. Once you’ve been a student here, your allegiance is to the school. Always.” She gave a smile that was more like a grimace. “It was in the code of conduct you signed when you were sentenced here.” I remembered that, a thick pamphlet I’d barely read before scrawling my name on the dotted line. I suddenly wished I had of power of time travel so that I could go smack Sophie From A Year Ago around, and tell her to read things first.

Before I can even process his actions, he bends down and gives me a quick but deep kiss.  When he pulls back and rests his forehead against mine, I know I might as well have just signed on the dotted line.  The look he gives me is so full of promise that if I had been wearing underwear, they would have blown up, completely exploded, right from my skin.

The most beneficial quality of family – the assurance that should something happen to one of us, it will happen to each of us. It’s a contract signed in blood at birth: Do you, Tiny Infant Who Knows Nothing, take these completely random people to be permanent fixtures in your life forever and ever? We sign that shit on the dotted line, and we do so happily, because it means, for better or worse, we will not be alone.

I want to be down in Rosemont before the sun rises." His startled cursing follow me to the line. When I get back with my hot chocolate and his nervous twitch in a cup, Archer's alone at the table. "Before dawn?" he asks sourly. "Or as close to it as possible. Have you ever seen the sunrise through stained glass, Agent Archer?" "No," he says morosely. "I'm okay with that not changing." "But it's my birthday." He signs and sips his coffee.

The 1940s was the heyday of pledges and oaths.* In Boy Scout halls, homerooms, and Elks lodges, people were accustomed to signing on the dotted line or standing and reciting, one hand raised. Even the Clean Plate Club—dreamed up by a navy commander in 1942—had an oath: “I, ____, being a member in good standing . . . , hereby agree that I will finish all the food on my plate . . . and continue to do so until Uncle Sam has licked the Japs and Hitler”—like, presumably, a plate.

Gray's conversation was composed of cliches. However shopworn, he uttered them with an obvious conviction that he was the first person to think of them. He never went to bed, but hit the hay, where he slept the sleep of the just; if it rained it rained to beat the band and to the very end Paris to him was Gay Paree. But he was so kindly, so unselfish, so upright, so reliable, so unassuming that it was impossible not to like him. I had a real affection for him. He was excited now over their approaching departure. "Gosh, it'll be great to get into harness again," he said. "I'm feeling my oats already." "Is it settled then?" "I haven't signed on the dotted line yet, but it's on ice. The fella I'm going in with was a roommate of mine at college, and he's a good scout, and I'm dead sure he wouldn't hand me a lemon. But as soon as we get to New York I'll fly down to Texas to give the outfit the once-over, and you bet I'll keep my eyes peeled for a nigger in the woodpile before I cough up any of Isabel's dough." "Gray's a very good businessman, you know," she said. "I wasn't raised in a barn," he smiled.

Twenty-four centuries ago, a Greek man stood at the sea’s edge watching ships disappear in the distance. Aristotle must have passed much time there, quietly observing many vessels, for eventually he was struck by a peculiar thought. All ships seemed to vanish hull first, then masts and sails. He wondered, how could that be? On a flat earth, ships should dwindle evenly until they disappear as a tiny featureless dot. That the masts and sails vanish first, Aristotle saw in a flash of genius, is a sign that the earth is curved. To observe the large-scale structure of our planet, Aristotle had looked through the window of geometry.

Kenilworth, Mountainside, Scotch Plains, Dunellen... they themselves seemed far from Jersey: names out of Waverley novels, promising vistas of castles, highland waterfalls, and meadows dotted with flocks of grazing sheep. But the signboards lied, the books had lied, the Times had lied; the land here was one vast and charmless suburb, and as the bus passed through it, speeding west across the state, Freirs saw before him only the flat grey monotony of highway, broken from time to time by gas stations, roadhouses, and shopping malls that stretched away like deserts. The bus was warm, and the ride was beginning to give him a headache. He could feel the backs of his thighs sweating through his chinos. Easing himself farther into the seat, he pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The scenery disappointed him, yet it was still an improvement over what they'd just come through. Back there, on the fringes of the city, every work of man seemed to have been given over to the automobile, in an endless line of showrooms and repair shops for mufflers, fenders, carburetors, ignitions, tires, brakes. Now at last he could make out hills in the distance and extended zones of green, though here and there the nearness of some larger town or development meant a length of highway lined by construction, billboards touting banks or amusement parks, and drive-in theaters, themselves immense blank billboards, their signs proclaiming horror movies, "family pictures," soft-core porn. A speedway announced that next Wednesday was ladies' night. Food stands offered pizzaburgers, chicken in the basket, fish 'n' chips.

One of the great lessons I learned while making my second film, Furious Love, was just how limitless God’s patience is. We seem to be in such a hurry to get people to make a decision, sign on the dotted line, admit certain things. But God takes a longer view. He’s willing to wait years, sometimes an entire lifetime, to bring us to a place where we will finally yield to His love for us.

Rod had signed on the dotted line mostly because he’d been promised a free college education. But his commitment to the armed forces had quickly evolved into much more than that. In the navy, he’d found a home, friends who were more like brothers, purpose in what he did, some self-esteem. But it hadn’t been an easy road.

For all of you who have signed on the dotted line and adopted a foster child, I personally thank you on behalf of a nation. I know it was not an easy thing to do.

Line 10: The fact that the inhabitants of the Netherworld are said to be clad in feather garments is perhaps due to the belief that after death, a person's soul turned into a spirit or a ghost, whose nature was wind-like, as well as bird-like. The Mesopotamians believed in the body (*pagru*) and the soul. the latter being referred to by two words: GIDIM = *et.emmu*, meaning "spirit of the dead," "ghost;" and AN.ZAG.GAR(.RA)/LIL2 = *zaqi_qu*/*ziqi_qu*, meaning "soul," "ghost," "phantom." Living beings (humans and animals) also had ZI (*napis\/tu*) "life, vigor, breath," which was associated with the throat or neck. As breath and coming from one's throat, ZI was understood as moving air, i.e., wind-like. ZI (*napis\/tu*) was the animating life force, which could be shortened or prolonged. For instance...Inanna grants "long life (zi-su\-ud-g~a/l) under him (=the king) in the palace. At one's death, when the soul/spirit released itself from the body, both *et.emmu* and *zaqi_qu*/*ziqi_qu* descended to the Netherworld, but when the body ceased to exist, so did the *et.emmu*, leaving only the *zaqi_gu*. Those souls that were denied access to the Netherworld for whatever reason, such as improper buriel or violent or premature death, roamed as harmful ghosts. Those souls who had attained peace were occasionally allowed to visit their families, to offer help or give instructions to their still living relatives. As it was only the *et.emmu* that was able to have influence on the affairs of the living relatives, special care was taken to preserve the remains of the familial dead. According to CAD [The Assyrian Dictionary of the University of Chicago] the Sumerian equivalent of *zaqi_qu*/*ziqi_qu* was li/l, which referred to a "phantom," "ghost," "haunting spirit" as in lu/-li/l-la/ [or] *lilu^* or in ki-sikil-li/l - la/ {or] *lili_tu*. the usual translation for the word li/l, however, is "wind," and li/l is equated with the word *s\/a_ru* (wind) in lexical lists. As the lexical lists equate wind (*s\/a_ru* and ghost (*zaqi_qu*) their association with each other cannot be unfounded. Moreover, *zaqi_qu* derives from the same root as the verb *za^qu*, "to blow," and the noun *zi_qu*, "breeze." According to J. Scurlock, *zaqi_qu* is a sexless, wind-like emanation, probably a bird-like phantom, able to fly through small apertures, and as such, became associated with dreaming, as it was able to leave the sleeping body. The wind-like appearance of the soul is also attested in the Gilgamesh Epic XII 83-84, where Enkidu is able to ascend from the Netherworld through a hole in the ground: "[Gilgamesh] opened a hole in the Netherworld, the *utukku* (ghost) of Enkidu came forthfrom the underworld as a *zaqi_qu." The soul's bird-like appearance is referred to in Tablet VII 183-184, where Enkidu visits the Netherworld in a dream. Prior to his descent, he is changed into a dove, and his hands are changed into wings. - State Archives of Assyria Cuneiform Texts Volume VI: The Neo-Assyrian Myth of Istar's Descent and Resurrection {In this quote I haven't been able to copy some words exactly. I've put Assyrian words( normally in italics) between *asterisks*. The names of signs in Sumerian cuneiform (wedge-shaped writing) are normally in CAPITALS with a number slightly below the line after it if there's more than one reading for that sign. Assyriologists use marks above or below individual letters to aid pronunciation- I've put whatever I can do similar after the letter. E.g. *et.emmu" normally has the dot under the "t" to indicate a sibilant or buzzy sound, so it sounds something like "etzzemmoo." *zaqi_qu* normally has the line (macron) over the "i" to indicate a long vowel, so it sounds like "zaqeeqoo." *napis\/tu* normally has a small "v" over the s to make a sh sound, ="napishtu".}

When handling business with people, whether you fuck with them or not, never make a decision based off emotions. Think before you speak and before you sign your name on the dotted line.

The turkeys I eat are raised on farms. They're different. They've signed on the dotted line.

Along with John and Judi, we took a big risk and started filming on the movie before we had a contract signed with MGM. There didn’t seem to be any choice. I imagined all the insurance underwriters across the world reacting to the phrase “live crocodiles.” Those two words would be enough to blow them right out of their cubicles. So we began shooting with our zoo crocodiles, but without signatures on the dotted line for the movie. A particular scene in the script--and a good example of an insurance man’s nightmare--had a crocodile trying to lunge into a boat. Only Steve’s expertise could make this happen, since the action called for Steve and me to be in the boat at the time. If the lunging crocodile happened to hook his head over the edge of the boat, he would tip us both into the water. That would be a one-way trip. “How are you going to work it?” I asked Steve. “Get the crocs accustomed to the dinghy first,” he said. “Then I’ll see if I can get them interacting with me while I’m in the boat.” First he tried Agro, one of our biggest male crocs. Agro was too wary of the boat. He’s a smart crocodile. I think he remembered back when he was captured. He didn’t want any of it. We decided to try with our friend Charlie. Charlie had been very close to ending up at a farm, his skin turned into boots, bags, and belts. He definitely had attitude. He spent a lot of his time trying to kill everything within range. Steve felt good about the possibility of Charlie having a go. Because he was filming a movie and not shooting a documentary, John had a more complex setup than usual, utilizing three thirty-five-millimeter cameras. Each one would film in staggered succession, so that the film magazine changes would never happen all at once. There would never be a time when film was not rolling. We couldn’t very well ask a crocodile to wait while a fresh mag was loaded into a camera. “You need to be careful to stay out of Charlie’s line of sight,” Steve said to me. “I want Charlie focusing only on me. If he changes focus and starts attacking you, it’s going to be too difficult for me to control the situation.” Right. Steve got no argument from me. Getting anywhere near those bone-crushing jaws was the furthest thing from my mind. I wasn’t keen on being down on the water with a huge saltwater crocodile trying to get me. I would have to totally rely on Steve to keep me safe.

Remind yourself that successful salespeople love their product and their company, and they love to sell and prospect. If you don’t have that kind of love on most days and most of every day, then it is time to make a change. Or better yet, re-sign on the dotted line and start over. Doing the same things over and over again and expecting a magic carpet ride across the world is pitiful thinking and the kind of reasoning that will keep you poor with a capital “P”.

[gritting teeth] God BLESS The Neanderthals! Ya can't get 'em to sign on your dotted line; and, ya can't get 'em to QUIT texting & READ a book, neither!

She told me she lined up the call with the doctor. “She’s ready now. Are you?” “Yes,” I said, looking up at Nikki and Riawna. They nodded. I didn’t hesitate for a second. I trusted them and I knew now was my time. Besides, I didn’t care who heard my truth. I was tired of letting shame dictate my actions. And do you know how hard it is to schedule Nikki and Riawna? Once I was on the phone with the doctor, I started in with a complete play-by-play of all my life’s traumas. The sexual abuse I suffered in childhood, and the abusive, obsessive relationships I clung to in adulthood. I was crying, the women doing my extensions were crying, and my friends were a mess. Still, I reeled off everything in a matter-of-fact manner, connecting dots about why each event had contributed to my anxiety, finally ending with, “So this is why I need help and why I can’t do this on my own.” I paused to breathe. “Wow,” the doctor said. My eyebrows shot up. Was I that bad? “First of all,” she continued, “people don’t know themselves that well. And the fact that you don’t know me, and you’re telling me all this on the phone tells me you are desperate.” I wasn’t trying to get an A in breaking down. She said a lot of people who use alcohol as a temporary coping mechanism generally aren’t aware of what they’re covering up, so the abuse becomes permanent. Knowing what I had to face was a good sign for me.

She's illiterate and signed an X on the dotted line at the bottom of the life waiver.

What sort of person refuses to give the terms and conditions before making someone sign on the dotted line? That’s bad business. Lux chuckled in my mind. What sort of person accepts a deal without demanding the terms and conditions?

I’d like to see twenty-one links completed when I return. Threats on your well-being are poor excuses for missing homework! He drew a happy face after that—two dots and a curving line—and signed his name.

After signing on the dotted line, I spent the next six months working out and doing my best not to get into trouble until I finally boarded a bus for the trip to the Military Entry Processing Station (MEPS) facility in southern Virginia. MEPS is the weigh station for all new military recruits. There, I found myself part of an interesting blend of Americana, one that included all shapes, sizes, colors, and temperaments of young men and women who were leaving the civilian world and getting their first taste of the United States military.

It’s important that Jennette wants to act, in order for her to do well,” he says. “Oh, she wants this more than anything,” Mom says as she signs on the next page’s dotted line. Mom wants this more than anything, not me. This day was stressful and not fun, and if given the choice, I would choose to never do anything like it again. On the other hand,

From the age of six I had a mania for drawing the shape of things. When I was fifty I had published a universe of drawings. But all I have done before the age of seventy is not worth bothering with. At seventy three I have learned something of the pattern of nature, of animals, of plants, of trees, birds, fish and insects. When I am eighty you will see real progress. At ninety I will have cut my way deeply into the mystery of life itself. At one hundred, I will be a marvellous artist. At one hundred and ten, everything I create - a dot, a line - will come alive. I call on those who still may be alive to see if I keep my word. Signed: The Old Man Mad About Art.

Prior to your interview, select the proper suit and the nicest shoes and come armed with information about the company too. Just like in a marriage, you don’t want to sign on the dotted line until you find out you’re compatible. Remember, in so many ways, careering is just like life.

Marriage and adoption have legal implications, but they are more than only a legal reality. Marriage and adoption are meant to be a lived reality, a lived attachment [...] ‘But the marriage is for the sake of a life together, and the adoption proceedings’ for a life together. And it’s true too: from the moment I first held her photograph and looked into Shiloh’s eyes under that starry Texas sky, I knew she was mine and I’d die for her. She was sealed in my heart as mine long before my hand signed on any dotted line.

There was a look on his face that was hard to describe. The devil must look like that after you’ve signed on the dotted line and given away your soul.

The opportunity is before you – you’ve said hello to the beautiful stranger, you’ve accepted the job, you’re about to sign that dotted line – don’t pull back. Don’t even think of pulling back. Don’t even think. Life is about moments of heightened emotion whether good or bad. This is your heightened moment, relish and embrace it. This is you – alive.

On the geological calendar, all of recorded history takes place during the last four seconds of New Year's Eve. 12:59:56, 12:59:57, 12:59:58, 12:59:59. When scaled down, everything humans know about anything, everything we love, everything we've made - condensed into four seconds. We come and go in the amount of time it takes to uncap a bottle of water and take a sip, sign on the dotted line, or fasten a seat belt.

How boundless is the horoscope of spring! One can read it in a thousand different ways, interpret it blindly, spell it out at will, happy to be able to decipher anything at all amid the misleading divinations of birds. The text can be read forward or backward, lose its sense and find it again in many versions, in a thousand alternatives. Because the text of spring is marked by hints, ellipses, lines dotted on an empty azure, and because the gaps between the syllables are filled by the frivolous guesses and surmises of birds, my story, like that text, will follow many different tracks and will be punctuated by springlike dashes, sighs, and dots.