He wanted to be like Lennon, which made me McCartney, I guess. We never needed George or Ringo – nor, as it turned out, Yoko.
The car hums like a big hungry cat as it skims across the desert on a foot-high cushion of air which smells faintly of ozone and lilacs. She reloads her guns and leans out the passenger-side window; the cops are still hot on our trail, but not for long.
We slept together twice, in case you’ve forgotten.
Maybe you should stop asking my advice on your next doomed relationship.
Let us bake a cake.
A cake of doooooooommmmmm!