There are no words and there is no singing, but the music has a voice. It is an old voice and a deep voice, like the stump of a sweet cigar or a shoe with a hole. It is a voice that has lived and lives, with sorrow and shame, ecstasy and bliss, joy and pain, redemption and damnation. It is a voice with love and without love. I like the voice, and though I can't talk to it, I like the way it talks to me. It says it is all the same, Young Man. Take it and let it be.

I always wanted to be the outlaw. And that's to a certain extent how I've lived.

Words can't say this. The one word love means too little for what it is. It means everything and that is still not enough.

I hadn't learned yet that everybody's locked up some way or other. That's how life is we're all imprisoned by something.

That's what ever great writer, I believe, has done over the course of time - is they've figured out new ways of telling the same stories.

Love only brought me lonliness and horror.

I, however, like black. It is a color that makes me comfortable and the color with which I have the most experience. In the darkest darkness, all is black. In the deepest hole, all is black. In the terror of my Addicted mind, all is black. In the empty periods of my lost memory, all is black. I like black, goddammit, and I am going to give it its due.