Everything in New Orleans is a good idea. Bijou temple-type cottages and lyric cathedrals side by side. Houses and mansions, structures of wild grace. Italianate, Gothic, Romanesque, Greek Revival standing in a long line in the rain. Roman Catholic art. Sweeping front porches, turrets, cast-iron balconies, colonnades- 30-foot columns, gloriously beautiful- double pitched roofs, all the architecture of the whole wide world and it doesn't move.

I'm mortified to be on the stage, but then again, it's the only place where I'm happy.

There's no liquor in the land that can stop your brain from bleedin

I hate myself for loving you and the weakness that it showed. You were just a painted face on a trip down to suicide road.

They can't hurt me. Sure, they can crush you and kill you. They can lay you out on 42nd and Broadway and put hoses on you and flush you in the sewers and put you on the subway and carry you out to Coney island and bury you on the Ferris wheel. But I refuse to sit here and worry about dying.

I never could guess your weight, baby.

I am hanging in the balance of a perfect finished plan, like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand.