My voyage was never a well-conceived plan, nor will it ever be. I have made it up as I went along.
When reality looks too ugly, fantasize.
I slowly surrender to the child in me who can't say goodbye.
It's a fine line between Saturday night and Sunday morning.
Where's the church, who took the steeple, Religion's in the hands of some crazy ass people, Television preachers with bad hair and dimples, The God's honest truth is, it's not that simple
Give me oysters and beer, for dinner every day of the year, and I'll be fine.