That’s the problem with all of this. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make it perfect. I can’t keep it in a bottle, can’t ignore reality. Chemicals are involved, the kind scientists try to synthesize and put into pill form, and they’re making tremendous advances every day. They’re winning the war against love. It’s probably inevitable now. There are only two ways to see the world: either no one and nothing is connected to anything, or we are all a random series of carbon molecules connected to each other. Tell me if there’s room for love in either of those scenarios.

I'll be your number one with a bullet.

What are you looking at?” she asks. What am I looking at? My future wife? The mother of my children? The person I was put on this earth to find? Yes.

Sometimes when it looks like I'm deep in thought I'm just trying not to have a conversation with people.

First he threw out all of his records, trashed his heart and then he went to sleep.

I’ve always been a dreamer, have always believed in the power of love and art and loud, life-affirming rock and roll, but, for the first time, I’m starting to have doubts. Can a dream even exist in reality? Or does it turn to stone the second it leaves your mind?

I'm an insomniac, my mind works the night shift.