If it had writing, I read it: cereal boxes, ads on the subway, billboards, highway signs.

Earth is the crossroads of every possible alien. We’re the McDonald’s next to the highway of the galaxy.

A city full of immigrants, without a soul still behind its glass buildings and concrete highways, where success is measured in millions of bolivars, Caracas does not have time to recognize talents that are not consecrated in advance – Plinio Apuleyo Mendoza.

Mona Lisa must have had the highway blues; you can tell by the way she smiles.

We want everybody to act like adults, quit playing games, realize that it’s not just my way or the highway.