The real desk isn't one with four legs and a filing cabinet. It's the space of time that you stake out every day and the will with which you defend it.
I'm singing for the love of it/Have mercy on the man who sings to be adored.
Every heart is a package tangled up in knots someone else tied.
I'm looking over rooftops, and I'm hoping it ain't true, that the same God looks out for them, looks out for me and you.
Fear only has as much power as we give it space.
I do think that there's art that is tortured, but I prefer art that has the joy in it.