Since change is constant, you wonder if people crave death because it's the only way they can get anything really finished.

It's creepy, but here we are, the Pilgrims, the crackpots of our time, trying to establish our own alternate reality. To build a world out of rocks and chaos. What it's going to be, I don't know. Even after all that rushing around, where we've ended up is the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. And maybe knowing isn't the point. Where we're standing right now, in the ruins in the dark, what we build could be anything.

They're just words is all. Powerless. Vocabulary. Dialogue.

We're all going overnight express delivery straight to Hell.

No matter how much you love someone, you still want to have you own way.

Because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it.

As an artist you organize your life so that you get a chance to paint, a window of time, but that's no guarantee you'll create anything worth all your effort. You're always haunt by the idea you're wasting your life.