Everyone of them words rang true and glowed like burning coal, pouring off every page like it was written in my soul from me to you.

Art is the perpetual motion of illusion. The highest purpose of art is to inspire. What else can you do? What else can you do for any one but inspire them?

The radio makes hideous sounds.

Inside the museum infinity goes up on trial. Voices echo, 'This is what salvation must be like after a while.' But Mona Lisa must have had the highway blues; you can tell by the way she smiles.

She makes love just like a woman.

The land created me. I'm wild and lonesome. Even as I travel the cities, I'm more at home in the vacant lots.

Well, I try my best to be just like I am, But everybody wants you to be just like them, They sing while you slave and I just get bored