“Peace found me in a wordless embrace – in the rising of autumn sun, and the sound of turning pages.”

I’m scared of mediocrity, of scribing my soul on fading pages, each destined to the fate that met those before it – gently laid to rest in a growing pile of unwanted words.

Words hold little scope, for a love that stretches far beyond the limitations of language.

Spirits dance on a velvet night, the sky it’s deepest black. In restless sleep and twisted dreams, they find themselves alive.

Your arms around me – and for the first time in years, I feel like I am home.

And in the end when the money is gone – will you still stay it was worth it.

And when I imagine my home – above all else, I’ll always think of you.

In the end it’s all the same – the hearty fire or the damp earth. I pray I’m not alone.

I feel like I’m on fire, fighting for a moment on respite – I’m not placing bets.

I read that good things take time – but one look at him, and I knew I could never love someone more.

The bond of friendship as tight as any lover – where shoulders carry shared burden, a devotion unmatched by any other.

What use is sleep, when reality is more beautiful than my dreams could ever muster?

You are a mirage – never mine to hold. A glimering promise so tempting to chase, eternally out of reach.

My throat burns with the words left unspoken, air hangs still and silence hides the words you long to hear – stay.

A full glass for an empty heart – the temporary bandage for a fatal would.

The smell of oak reminds me of summers spent sleeping under canvas, crackling fires and roasted coffee, the soft sound of guitar and voices in unison.

A collection of thoughts bundled together and bound in twine – more toxic than any chemical, my very own poison.

Everybody was on the same page. Nobody has really gone out there on a different musical journey. When we got back together again, we all wanted to do the same kind of music.

Interviewers always used to ask me about my pageboy haircut, and it drove me nuts: it almost made me suspect that there was something strange about it. So I cut off my pageboy.

If somebody has a better idea than me, I’ll take it if it surpasses what we have on the page because at the end of the day, it’s me that takes the credit anyway!

In the book of life every page has two sides: we human beings fill the upper side with our plans, hopes and wishes, but providence writes on the other side, and what it ordains is seldom our goal.

I like Stallone, because he writes. He sits down with a blank page and comes up with another Rambo movie. That isn’t very easy for anybody. He’s made it successful on top of that.

Another murder I committed made the front page.

I become a bit of a blank page in public. And that’s precisely why I like acting.

Every man should be born again on the first day of January. Start with a fresh page