The Border is the scar of history.

A Border is scratched across the hearts of men by strangers with a calm, judicial pen, and when the borders bleed we watch with dread the lines of ink across the map turn red.

The Border is strategically important — When the lips are gone the teeth are cold.

A Border is established so there is something to fight about.

Language plays with us, not us with it.

Language's structure determines not only thought, but reality itself.

Language is responsible for etching the grooves through which your thoughts must flow.

Language , on earth, has literally become alive. Language has infested matter; it is replicating and defining and building itself. And it is in us.

Memory is the scribe of the soul.

Memory is the treacherous ally of invention.

Memory is the purveyor of reason.

Memory is the friend of wit,

A Queue is the only way you're going to keep some people in line.

A Queue is a mysterious place where, if you change lines, the one you just left will invariably start to move faster than the one you are now in.

Queue is a word in which the "ueue" aren't silent, they're just waiting for their turn.

Queue is a word that functions much like a group project, with one letter doing all the work.