“She doesn’t give you time for questions as she locks up your arms in hers. And you follow till your sense of direction completely disappears.”

Jimi Hendrix played loud and free, Sergeant Pepper was real to me.

Country & western, rap, heavy metal, with historical folk rock off in some kind of cult.

So you packed your world up inside a canvas sack, set off down the highway with your rings and Kerouac.

And peer down the highway from here to eternity and reach out for love on the run.

The literati in their cellarsPerform semantic tarantellas.I wish I did it half as well as them.

I know there’s a big bad world out there, but I rarely come across it.

You go strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre, contemplating a crime. She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running like a watercolor in the rain.

Looking so cool, his greed is hard to conceal, he’s fresh out of law school.

most of the rest of it is about image or the beat or the sound, or else it’s a tribal thing.

Whoever you pretend to be, you must face yourself eventually.

Nothing that’s forced can ever be right, if it doesn’t come naturally, leave it.

Look to the past and remember no empire rises that sooner or later won’t fall.

And all the songs I ever sung each one of them untied me And all the girls I ever loved have left themselves inside me.

She comes out of the sun in a silk dress, running like a water color in the rain.

On a morning from a Bogart movie, in a country where they turn back time.

Do you remember the church across the sands? You stood outside and planned to travel the lands, where the pilgrims go.

My arms hurt from how tightly patch held me. Now thats what i call a scream, he said, grinning at me.

Carter started down the stairs, but I grabbed his arm. “Hang on. What about traps?” He frowned. “Traps?” “Didn’t Egyptian tombs have traps?” “Well…sometimes. But this isn’t a tomb. Besides, more often they had curses, like the burning curse, the donkey curse—” “Oh, lovely. That sounds so much better.

We are bound no longer by the straitjacket of the past and nowhere is the change greater than in our profession of arms. What, you may well ask, will be the end of all of this? I would not know! But I would hope that our beloved country will drink deep from the chalice of courage.

Be not merely a man of letters! Let literature be an honorable augmentations to your arms, not constitute the coat or fill the escutcheon!

His fingers slide into my hair, and I hold on to his arms to stay steady as we press together like two blades at a stalemate.

The most beautiful clothes that can dress a woman are the arms of the man she loves. But for those who haven’t had the fortune of finding this happiness, I am there.

The best quality about Kobe Bryant? You want me to be honest? I don’t know. I’ll tell you why. I open my arms to everybody. But he never stepped forward for the embrace. So I never really got to know him. I don’t know anything about him, and it’s kinda sad.

We see radiating many long arms with innumerable tentaculae, and in the centre rises a gigantic head with a comprehensive brain and keen eyes to look on every side and ears sensitive to hear–and a voracious mouth to swallow.