What the Chronics are - or most of us - are machines with flaws inside that can't be repaired, flaws born in, or flaws beat in over so many years of the guy running head-on into solid things that by the time the hospital found him he was bleeding rust in some vacant lot.

I been silent so long now it’s gonna roar out of me like floodwaters and you think the guy telling this is ranting and raving my God; you think this is too horrible to have really happened, this is too awful to be the truth! But, please. It’s still hard for me to have a clear mind thinking on it. But it’s the truth even if it didn’t happen.

He knows that you have to laugh at the things that hurt you just to keep yourself in balance, just to keep the world from running you plumb crazy.

But I tried, didn't I? Goddamnit, at least I did that.

Now, you’re either on the bus or you’re off the bus.

When Shakespeare was writing, he wasn't writing for stuff to lie on the page; it was supposed to get up and move around.

The '60s aren't over; they won't be over until the Fat Lady gets high.