Reality is a sliding door.

If a man can... make a better mousetrap, the world will make a beaten path to his door.

Music takes us out of the actual and whispers to us dim secrets that startle our wonder as to who we are, and for what, whence, and whereto.

She jumped into the back sliding door, I guess, and she found a pair of scissors or something and he's taking off and she's telling him to stop.

The bird, the bee, the running child are all the same to the sliding glass door.

If I know your sect, I anticipate your argument