Contempt Mates Well With Pity.

There's Something Hypocritical About A City That Keeps Half Of Its Population Underground Half Of The Time; You Can Start Believing That There's Much More Space Than There Really Is-to Live, To Work.

Time's Passage Through The Memory Is Like Molten Glass That Can Be Opaque Or Crystalize At Any Given Moment At Will: A Thousand Days Are Melted Into One Conversation, One Glance, One Hurt, And One Hurt Can Be Shattered And Sprinkled Over A Thousand Days. It Is Silent And Elusive, Refusing To Be Damned And Dripped Out Day By Day; It Swirls Through The Mind While An Entire Lifetime Can Ride Like Foam On The Deceptive, Transparent Waves And Get Sprayed Onto The Conciousness At Ragged, Unexpected Intervals.

A Myth Is More Powerful - And More Lasting - Than Reality.

They All Trying To Say Something With Music That You Can't Say With Plain Talk. There Ain't Really No Words For Love Or Pain. And The Way I See It, Only Fools Go Around Trying To Talk Their Love Or Talk Their Pain. So The Smart People Make Music And You Can Kinda Hear About It Without Them Saying Anything.

One Should Be Able To Return To The First Sentence Of A Novel And Find The Resonances Of The Entire Work.