Maggie, we're through with lies and liars in this house. Lock the door.

I'm only really alive when I'm writing.

In memory everything seems to happen to music.

Oh, you can't describe someone you're in love with!

Don't you just love these long rainy afternoons in New Orleans when an hour isn't just an hour — but a little bit of eternity dropped in your hands — and who knows what to do with it?

Openings come quickly, sometimes, like blue space in running clouds. A complete overcast, then a blaze of light.

Nobody sees anybody truly, but all through the flaws of their own ego.