I am planting a tree in this bomb crater to remind us that in the midst of death, there is life... and hope.

This was his mind, a storehouse, a computer programmed to life, minute by minute, hour by hour, day and night.

Sometimes I feel that I could stand in the middle of the square and scream and thrash about like a wildling, and no one would notice.

I’d waited an eternity for this. I’d have waited all over again if I had to. I was meant to kiss this boy, designed to be held by him.

I'm getting to a point in my life where my whole attitude about the relationship between myself and the audience is totally different.

Thanks to the circus between my ears, I can seize upon the smallest disquieting observation and from it extrapolate a terror of cataclysmic proportions.

Art is visceral and vulgar - it's an eruption.

You might be a redneck if you give your dad a gallon of Pepto-Bismol for his birthday.

This is what people do in America. They get out. They demonstrate. They let their voices with heard.

Don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are. When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away.

Thoughts without words… Can that be?