"DAMN MY EGGS! DAMN ALL THE EGGS THAT EVER WAS!" -Wilson

He is as like one, as one egg is like another.

He's hit the beans on toast.

I raised that kid like I was running an egg-and-spoon race through a minefield, and he was the egg.

A man travelling on a train - like you or I - to
Scotland, had two or two bad eggs in his pocket -
and you know - no one would sit by him.

He would not journey without a foot. He would not breed nuts without trees, Like seeking for ants in the heath. Like an instrument of foolish spoil, Like the retinue of an army without a head, Like feeding the unsheltered on lichen.

Somewhere in the trash he reads Martland has read that heavy men walk with surprising lightness and grace; as a result he trips about like a portly elf hoping to be picked up by a leprechaun.

"and as they walked along he sang "Tol-de-ri-de-oh!" at every step, he felt so gay."

He imagines a necessary joy in things that must fly to eat.

He delighted to tread upon the brink of meaning.

history tells us of the case of a man living under the peculiar delusion that he was a fried egg. Quite how or when this idea had entered his head, no one knew, but he now refused to sit down anywhere for fear that he would ‘break himself’ and ‘spill the yolk’. His doctors tried sedatives and other drugs to appease his fears, but nothing seemed to work. Finally, one of them made the effort to enter the mind of the deluded patient and suggested that he should carry a piece of toast with him at all times, which he could place on any chair he wished to sit on, and thereby protect himself from breaking his yolk. From then on, the deluded man was never seen without a piece of toast handy, and was able to continue a more or less normal existence.

On an evening in the latter part of May a middle-aged man was walking homeward from Shaston to the village of Marlott, in the adjoining Vale of Blakemore, or Blackmoor. The pair of legs that carried him were rickety, and there was a bias in his gait which inclined him somewhat to the left of a straight line. He occasionally gave a smart nod, as if in confirmation of some opinion, though he was not thinking of anything in particular. An empty egg-basket was slung upon his arm, the nap of his hat was ruffled, a patch being quite worn away at its brim where his thumb came in taking it off. Presently he was met by an elderly parson astride on a gray mare, who, as he rode, hummed a wandering tune.

This guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, Doc, my brother’s crazy. He thinks he’s a chicken. The doctor says, Well, why don’t you turn him in? And the guy says, I would but I need the eggs. Well I guess that’s pretty much how I feel about relationships. You know they’re totally irrational and crazy and absurd but I guess we keep going through it because, uh, most of us need the eggs.

2018. He set my House afire, only to roast his Eggs.