How can I save my little boy from Oppenheimer's deadly toy?
An uncle of mine emigrated to Canada and couldn't take his guitar with him. When I found it in the attic, I'd found a friend for life.
I exist in a state of almost perpetual hysteria.
Money is only important when you don't have any.
The world is ruled by butterflies adding to their weapon piles. Imagine what your taxes buy. We hardly ever try.
That sense of failure, I don't know where people put it who don't write songs and aren't able to emote physically. It must go somewhere.