Honey, I plan to marry you the moment the ink is dry on that death certificate.

You do right by me, I'll show you a life most suckers can't even dream of.

What else do I have to offer? Nothing happens to me anymore. That’s the reality of getting old, and I guess that’s really the crux of the matter. I’m not ready to be old yet.

It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here

With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.

Sometimes I think that if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I'd choose the corn. Not that I wouldn't love to have a final roll in the hay - I am a man yet, and something never die - but the thought of those sweet kernels bursting between my teeth sure sets my mouth to watering. It's fantasy, I know that. Neither will happen. I just like to weight the options, as though I were standing in front of Solomon: a final roll in the hay or an ear of corn. What a wonderful dilemma. Sometimes I substitute an apple for the corn.

Is where you're from the place you're leaving or where you have roots?