How can the life of such a man be in the palm of some fools hand?
Obscenity, who really cares. Propaganda, all is phony.
I am hanging in the balance of a perfect finished plan, like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand.
Once you think you know the song, then you have go and see how other people have done it.
When I think of mystery, I don't think about myself. I think of the universe, like why does the moon rise when the sun falls? Caterpillars turn into butterflies? I really haven't remained a recluse.
I used to think it's better if you just live and die and no one knows who you are.