Injustice wears ever the same harsh face wherever it shows itself.

Power, for the writer....lies in his ability to reveal if only a little bit more about the complexity of humanity.

In those days it was either live with music or die with noise, and we chose rather desperately to live.

What and how much had I lost by trying to do only what was expected of me instead of what I myself had wished to do?

Everywhere I've turned somebody has wanted to sacrifice me for my own good—only /they/ were the ones who benefited. And now we start on the old sacrificial merry-go-round. At what point do we stop?

Who knows but that, on the lower frequencies, I speak for you?

Had the price of looking been blindness, I would have looked.