Forget the dead you've left, they will not follow you.

Michelangelo indeed could have carved out your features.

Night can swallow you up, yet none of it touches you. Around any corner, there's a promise of something daring and ideal and things are just getting going. There's something obscenely joyful behind every door, either that or somebody crying with their head in in their hands. A lazy rhythm looms in the dreamy air and the atmosphere pulsates with bygone duels, past-life romance, comrades requesting comrades to aid them in some way. You can't see it, but you know it's there

Look out your window, and I'll be gone. You're the reason I'm a-traveling on.

Some times I think this whole world Is one big prison yeard Some of us are prisoners The rest of us are guards

There's no black and white, left and right to me anymore; there's only up and down and down is very close to the ground. And I'm trying to go up without thinking about anything trivial such as politics. They have got nothing to do with it. I'm thinking about the general people and when they get hurt.

I felt like I might as well have been living in another part of the solar system.