Shadows are falling and I've been here all day/It's too hot to sleep, time is running away/Feel like my soul has turned into steel/I've still got the scars that the sun didn't heal.

On the stone that remains carved next to his name, his epitaph plain, only a pawn in their game.

You travel the world, you go see different things. I like to see Shakespeare plays, so I'll go - I mean, even if it's in a different language. I don't care, I just like Shakespeare, you know. I've seen Othello and Hamlet and Merchant of Venice over the years, and some versions are better than others. Way better. It's like hearing a bad version of a song. But then somewhere else, somebody has a great version.

Bent out of shape from society's pliers, cares not to come up any higher, but rather get you down in the hole that he's in.

Popular music had never had lyrical sophistication of this type [like Bob Dylan]; wit, to be sure, but "Darkness at the break of noon/Shadows even the silver spoon/The handmade blade, the child's balloon/Eclipses both the sun and moon/To understand you know too soon/ There is no sense in trying"? No.

Sing your praise of progress and the doom machine, the naked truth is still taboo whenever it can be seen.

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