I don't know why people would be interested in what I do. Maybe they feel how I feel. Maybe it's because we're all missing something, and I just happen to wear that on my sleeve.

I don't want to interact with people but I do get lonely.

I like walking around and listening to music. When my steps coincide with a beat, in my head I feel in unison with the world that I'm living in.

I'm honestly flattered and humbled that anyone would show interest in something I've done, forever.

I love music, but more for the context within the music than a certain sound.

Sometimes leaving is the only way to be there for someone.

I've felt love from certain songs that I've wanted to experience from other people - where I know that love may never happen - and I want to give that to someone else.

I feel there is love and confidence in me somewhere and I want to find it. So far, music is the only medium that's allowed me to flirt with a sense of self-worth, with joy and comfort.

There isn't a difference between how I feel in the world and how I feel as a musician, or someone who writes. They are one in the same. It's just a different presentation.

You can't expect drive and compassion from everyone who enters your life, but you have to demand it of the people you are creating with.

I don't know why I've spent over half of My life talking about dying

What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again.

Nothing overdone, nothing racy, which made her all the more alluring.

I write into an old book that smells of dust and whose pages are floppy with damp. Sometimes the ink splodges onto the paper, other times it will barely leave the nib of my pen.

Reading can take you places you have never been before.

He who has read Kafka's Metamorphosis and can look into his mirror unflinching may technically be able to read print, but is illiterate in the only sense that matters.

You place too much importance... on the so-called purity of blood! You fail to recognize that it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be!

We need a regime change in this country.... If we launch a pre-emptive strike on Iraq we lose all moral authority.

The sin of inadvertence, not being alert, not quite awake, is the sin of missing the moment of life-live with unremitting alertness.

To have no loyalty is to have no dignity, and in the end, no manhood.

Patriotism, in the trenches, was too remote a sentiment, and at once rejected as fit only for civilians, or prisoners. A new arrival who talked patriotism would soon be told to cut it out.