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I want to feel what it’s like. I want to taste it, hear it, smell it. Death is only going to happen to you once; I don’t want to miss it

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How can they expect me or anyone else to set them free if they don’t really want to be free?
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Twentieth-century culture’s disease is the inability to feel their reality.
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Expose yourself to your deepest fear; after that, fear has no power, and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes. You are free.
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That’s what real love amounts to – letting a person be what he really is..
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I want to have my kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames.
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My wild words slip into fusion and risk losing the solid ground. So stranger, get wilder still. Probe the highlands.
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There are images I need to complete my own reality.
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Blood is the rose of mysterious union.
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Man, I’m sick of doubt.
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Give me songs to sing and emerald dreams to dream and I’ll give you love unfolding.
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You have a lot of small choices. It’s like . . . I guess it’s the difference between suicide and slow capitulation . . .
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All our lives we sweat and save, Building for a shallow grave.
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I am troubled, immeasurably by your eyes. I am struck by the feather of your soft reply.
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Society, parents they refuse to allow you to keep the freedom you were born with.
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There may be a time when we’ll attend Weather Theaters to recall the sensation of rain.
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