Like a cat on a hot tin roof.

Switch clicking off in my head, turning the hot light off and the cool night on and — [He looks up, smiling sadly.] — all of a sudden there's—peace!

I met her last summer on a moonlight boat trip.

Personal lyricism is the outcry of prisoner to prisoner from the cell in solitary where each is confined for the duration of his life.

In memory everything seems to happen to music.

Revolution only needs good dreamers who remember their dreams.

I don't want realism. I want magic!