There was a hole the size of a ten-rappen coin on her right shin and a run laddering after it.

This film is broadcast in color. Most people dream in color, but some dream in black and white.

Monsignor Charles Kekumano, 78, was snoring loudly in his bed. Every so often, he would stop sawing wood—and break into the delightfully mischievous grin that made him so famous.

There was the detritus of untold communes and utopias— from the celibate Shakers, who'd died out through lack of breeding, to the wholly licentious latter-day acidheads who'd left behind nothing but their fleas and half-finished macramé plant hangers and lawnsful of broken major appliances.