That ain't me, that ain't my face. It wasn't even me when I was trying to be that face. I wasn't even really me them; I was just being the way I looked, the way people wanted.

No, my friend. We are lunatics from the hospital up the highway, psycho-ceramics, the cracked pots of mankind. Would you like me to decipher a Rorschach for you?

He was in his chair in the corner, resting a second before he came out for the next round -- in a long line of next rounds. The thing he was fighting, you couldn't whip it for good. All you could do was keep on whipping it, till you couldn't come out anymore and somebody else had to take your place.

I sometimes have these spells of compulsive truth. But as Lady Macbeth would say, "The fit is momentary."

Memory whispers someplace in that jumbled machinery.

Listen, wait, and be patient. Every shaman knows you have to deal with the fire that's in your audience's eye.

Good writin' ain't necessarily good readin'.