We measure our days out in steps of uncertainty not turning to see how far we've come. And peer down the highway from here to eternity and reach out for love on the run.

She doesn't give you time for questions as she locks up your arms in hers. And you follow till your sense of direction completely disappears.

I know there's a big bad world out there, but I rarely come across it.

Movie queens diffuse into Cinema haze, while libertines read pornozines in street cafes.

The evening sings in a voice of amber, the dawn is surely coming.

Nothing that's forced can ever be right, if it doesn't come naturally, leave it.

On a morning from a Bogart movie, in a country where they turn back time. You go strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre, contemplating a crime. She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running like a watercolor in the rain. Don't bother asking for explanations, she'll just tell you that she came in the year of the cat.