Oh sure. Because we always talk about deep down stuff.

Cut the ending. Revise the script. The man of her dreams is a girl.

This is my vision-what I imagine I'll pass through on my way to the light. The blue sky, the clouds, the rays of light.

...the man of my dreams is a girl.

Really? It seems too good to be true. I don't trust it. I don't trust anyone.

Your failures and your faults, they stick with you. They glob into ugly, cancerous growths inside you and make you want to die.

Me? I had no dreams. No longings. Dreams only set you up for disappointment. Plus, you had to have a life to have dreams of a better life.

No one ever found out what was happening inside me. How the pain was eating me away. No one ever came to my rescue, or stood up for me.

What's the point of living if you don't belong anywhere?

What you see, isn't always what you get

Is that all I am? A friend?" "Of course not," I say. "I love you." "Am I the only one?" she asks. "Yes. Completely." First, last, and always.

Intelligence won wars, not brute force.

In the wilderness, our faith is tested, and God faithfulness is manifested.

Digital for storage and quickness. Analog for fatness and warmth.

Poverty is the deprivation of opportunity.

No matter what you do, you'll never run away from you.

All the stuff about being a drinking club, or having players who were not good enough, I treat as rubbish.

My pictures are about getting as far away from reality as possible. Dreams should be part of our everyday life.

Every moment comes to you pregnant with divine purpose . . . . Once it leaves your hands and your power to do with it as you please, it plunges into eternity, to remain forever what you made it.

The melody is French. But that's the end of the record. I named it "Jean Pierre Then There Were None," you know, because of the big explosion. You'll like it. It's a nice album.

Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.