I'm no connoisseur, but I think you're right.

Whatever happened to Martha? Last I saw her she was in the garden, picking up the bits of her heart she'd spilled.

Are you a doctor? I'm in need of assistance. My organs feel sloppy - perhaps they had too much cranberry juice.

No, I'm not a pilot. Do I look like a pilot? I'm sorry my tie fooled your eyes.

If I'm you, and you're me, then who's that ghostly being in the petticoat? His name tag says Carrion - I think he was a busboy.

Sunshine makes me queasy (I have a real condition, I wouldn't make it up).

It just occurred to me that neither of us are wearing any pants.

Are you responsible for my disappearance? Am I responsible for yours?

I've forgotten the name of the Prime Minister, and I shall surely be put to death once she finds out. Off with my head! Good show, I daresay! I often use comedy as a coping mechanism.

The planets have aligned.

Mercury's in retrograde. Get with the times, Mercury! Retro won't be in style for another 300 years! But now I'm afraid I've uttered too much.

The leaves this year have particularly poignant colors, if I do say so myself. Martha would be thrilled to see them. I do hope she finds all her heart bits before sundown, lest they be lost to the moon beetles beneath the morning glories.

Are you alright? You're looking rather pale. I hope I haven't frightened you too terribly (though I would understand your slight discomfort).

The petunias aren't Petunias anymore, they say. They're Theodores now, and no, it's not just a phase.

I knew a Theodore once, long ago. He was brothers with Leonardo, the paper mache demon. Theodore loved to moan gruesomely to travellers at crossroads, said it was part of who he was, and he wouldn't change for all the cream porridge in the world. I quite admired him for that.

Pickles for pirates at sea, no wonder their mouths are filled with rotten teeth. Vinegar is bad for the soul - it harrows you. That's what happened to little Christopher Penwood. He's lost, now. Only the trees can hear him.

Marry in yeller, you'll be ashamed of yer feller. Marry in red, he surely end up dead. Of course, those are mere wives tales, but think about it; have you ever met a wife who's been wrong?

Do you even know my name?