His heart, like mine, was ticking off the time allotted to his small restless body.

Unclose your mind. You are not a prisoner. You are a bird in flight, searching the skies for dreams.

I have a million things to talk to you about. All I want in this world is you. I want to see you and talk. I want the two of us to begin everything from the beginning.

No matter how far you travel, you can never get away from yourself.

Say it before you run out of time. Say it before it's too late. Say what you're feeling. Waiting is a mistake.

I probably still haven’t completely adapted to the world. I don’t know, I feel like this isn’t the real world. The people, the scene: they just don’t seem real to me.

But if you knew you might not be able to see it again tomorrow, everything would suddenly become special and precious, wouldn’t it?

The answer is dreams. Dreaming on and on. Entering the world of dreams and never coming out. Living in dreams for the rest of time.

When I first met you, I felt a kind of contradiction in you. You’re seeking something, but at the same time, you are running away for all you’re worth.

When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.

I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it -- to be fed so much love I couldn't take any more. Just once.

There is a great deal of difference between an eager man who wants to read a book and a tired man who wants a book to read.

It is by continuing to put out good work that the artist best shows his gratitude.

Music is a second language to my heart.

We were like confirmed opium-eaters: in our moments of reason we well knew the deadly nature of our pursuit, but we certainly were not prepared to abandon its terrible delights.

Hamlet, Kierkegaard, Kafka are ironists in the wake of Jesus. All Western irony is a repetition of Jesus' enigmas/riddles, in amalgam with the ironies of Socrates.

Well, I'm just about at the elevator up to the family quarters. But bear with me for just a minute more as I confirm who I am . It's obvious: I'm the president of the United States of America!

He treats me like the dirt under my feet.

Life was a sorrowful throb of this Matter teaching it anguish, Teaching it hope and desire trod out too soon in the mire, Life the frail joy that regrets its briefness, life the long sorrow.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity