The guy's life drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?

Each time someone dies, a library burns.

The first thing I notice is the sky, so full of blue and the kind of brilliant white clouds that make you ecstatic to have eyes. Nothing can go wrong under this sky.

How can the word love, the word life, even fit in the mouth?

We wish with our hands, that's what we do as artists.

And why do English people sound smarter than the rest of us? Like they should be awarded the Nobel Prize for a simple greeting?

He's bent over the strings tuning his guitar with such passionate attention I almost feel I should look away but I can't. In fact I'm full on gawking wondering what it would be like to be cool and casual and fearless and passionate and so freaking alive just like he is- and for a split second I want to play with him. I want to disturb the birds. Later as he plays and plays as all the fog burns away I think he's right. That's exactly it- I am crazy sad and somewhere deep inside all I want is to fly.