It's in my interest, in ours perhaps, or maybe the interests of the greater good, for me to smoke a joint, and calm down.

I have a theory that the truth is never told during the nine-to-five hours.

Sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind but falling in love and not getting arrested.

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!

With a bit of luck, his life was ruined forever. Always thinking that just behind some narrow door in all of his favorite bars, men in red woolen shirts are getting incredible kicks from things he’ll never know.

Life has become immeasurably better since I have been forced to stop taking it seriously.

We must ride this strange torpedo out until the end.