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

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.

If Jessica [Simpson] looks hot in something, I can definitely tell her that. But for me, out of the entire Simpson family, and out of all the Simpsons on the planet, and all the girls in the universe, the hottest one is the one I married. She could be sitting there in a pair of sweatpants and she beats out any girl in Maxim.

You are what you love, not who loves you.

But our love isn’t easy because it’s not meant to be. It requires work and sacrifice and protection. And I wouldn’t want it any other way, not right now, with the morning sun making the curtains glow and Her arms around my neck and the sounds of the street so far away. I’m in it for the long haul, I’m not going away.

This is how your heart gets snagged, like a balloon on a barbed-wire fence, this is where pieces of you get torn away.

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?