I often can’t remember where I’m at. I’m like that all the time. Not so much forgetful, but more futureful. For me, today is always tomorrow. To all the people who live in the moment I say: Stop living in the past.

You are the sculptor, and the future is your sculpture. Tomorrow is shaped today.

If I could time travel, I wouldn’t tell anybody, because who would believe me? I mean, obviously I can time travel, because how do you think I move forward in life?

Squirrels never have to clock out to eat lunch. They also never pay for their food, so are humans really at the top of the power chart?

The future hasn’t come. And when it arrives, it will be the present. Think about that next time you’re late.

To blame me in the past is a very future me thing to do. But what am I supposed to do, blame someone else for my mistakes? Somebody needs to be held accountable, and it certainly won’t be the version of me in that moment.

Our reality consists of space and time. But don’t forget that money has dimensionality, and if you don’t have any, you live a less round existence.

Stevie splits his time between Branson and Nashville. I think it’s smart to divide time by location, rather than AM and PM, because that way you get more distance and are able to extend your life out further.

History is now being documented in the moment through memes, and they shape our memories. I make them as if to say, I was here, and I mocked this time and place.

I’ve been in love one time, I said as I held up my pinky. I would have held up my index finger, but I wasn’t in love that long.

Dormant Twitter accounts are fascinating, because they are like historical fragments. Each tweet is a word sculpture shaped by a moment that has been preserved through time.

Money is flowing past you all the time like an invisible breeze. The trick is to get some to slide into your pockets and stay.

Branson, Missouri is the leftover meatloaf of the tourism industry. It doesn’t matter what year it is, it stays fresh like 1991.

Time is a murderer. A clock’s two hands slowly strangle us all.

Time is fluid, like the wide sky that fades into bright orange in a sunset in The Ozarks. Every moment is meant to be sipped and savored like a slow mimosa.

To blame me in the past is a very future me thing to do. But what am I supposed to do, scapegoat someone else for my mistakes? Somebody needs to be held accountable, and it certainly won’t be the version of me in that moment.

Nostalgia is where the past blurs into the present. That’s where all the best scents are to be found.

Time is fluid, like water. Swim in it like a duck.

He has a golf swing like a Bukowski line. It’s slightly rough, but it’s got a shape that knifes through time.

Today is the one that introduces Yesterday to Tomorrow. If it weren’t for Today, Nostalgia would never meet Hope.

Watches and clocks are round, like the product Brick Oven serves with five-star flavor, because it’s always pizza time. But I’m always split over what to order, because I make their wings disappear like I’m Amelia Earhart.

Water doesn’t shape like clay when you move it with your hands. I’ve spent a lot of time swimming, and none of my motion art stayed in place. All my aqua sculpting rippled into the future, never to be seen again.

I can make it rain, just by waiting. I’m like that all the time, some of the time.

I like seeing construction, even if it’s just renovation, because it symbolizes one thing: Hope. If tomorrow looks worse than today, and the day after looks worse than tomorrow, and despair permeates the air, then decay defeats repair.

Strangers always ask me if I’m from Michigan. I say, Why, do I have a Detroit-shaped face, circa 1960? They all say yes, but I know they are lying, because I look more like Mackinac Island at the turn of the twentieth century.

In my dream I was dreaming. And in that dream I was also dreaming, and on and on down seven layers. When I woke up I had to wake up again and again and again because I was nested levels of sleep deeper than even Time itself dares to venture.

I’m running late, but there’s always time to scribble weird messages in guest signage books. Also, am I really late? The Catholic Church added a thousand years to history, so I figure I’m actually way ahead of schedule.

Time is fluid, like the wide sky that fades into bright orange in a sunset in The Ozarks. Here on my duck farm, every moment is meant to be sipped and savored like a slow mimosa.

Before the blue of night meets the pink of sunrise, there is a transition of lavender. It’s a gradient of color that stretches its fade through time, and that gives each moment a unique and exquisite existence.

The future is always on its way, but never here. That’s why you never invite it for dinner.

Liminal spaces deserve to be filled with Vaporwave. It’s an auditory aesthetic that’s fluid like time.

A Pekin duckling in a bowl of water is like a small furry sun sponging up spring. As far as I know, that’s the best way to measure time.

The past is marble. It’s unmovable, and the you from then is no more than a statue—a likeness of you that looks like you but is not you.

I asked her on a date for Friday at 8:00. She said, “Some other time, maybe.” So I said, “How about 8:01?”


You can’t do enough tomorrow to make up for not doing anything today. That’s why it’s best to have started yesterday.