I’m me, and at the same time not me. That’s what it felt like. A very still, quiet feeling.

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.

Children should learn that reading is pleasure, not just something that teachers make you do in school.

If a machine can convincingly imitate humanity—can persuade a human being of its kinship—then what makes it inhuman? What, after all, is human thought but a series of electrical impulses?

Begin asking how you may be of service and you will soon discover that the true gift is in your giving.

But that's one of the nice things about doing a stage show, if something doesn't work out, you have the luxury of working on it over time.

The answer to human life is not to be found within the limits of human life.

Music is the marriage of the feelings of the living to the wisdom of the dead.

And I also see how this body influences external images: it gives back movement to them.

The Raiders of old were vicious and crazy and cruel. Hanging around their locker room was like hanging around the weight room at Folsom Prison.

I think the obligation of a poet is not to be in an ivory tower; it is not to be isolated but to be among people.

Loss is essential. Loss is part and parcel of that necessary calamity called life.