“We all have stories we’re living and telling ourselves.”

I think life goes through a cycle of losing and refinding yourself all the time. Everyone has disappointments all the time, some of them pretty small, some of them pretty big.

Somehow all you ever need’s never really quite enough.

If you have written really well, people will swear that it happened to you.

We’ve got no fairytale ending, in God’s hands our fate is complete. Your heaven’s here in my heart, our love’s this dust beneath my feet.

Success makes life easier. It doesn’t make living easier.

So let’s take the good times as they go and I’ll meet you further on up the road.

She kissed me just right, like only a lonely angel can.

Don’t take yourself too seriously. And take yourself as seriously as death itself.

It’s a fairytale so tragic there’s no prince to break the spell. I don’t believe in magic, but for you I will.

Being an artist is this kind of occupation in which you have to make people care about your obsession.

Now everyone dreams of a love faithful and true, But you and I know what this world can do. So let’s make our steps clear so the other may see. And I’ll wait for you…should I fall behind wait for me.

Show a little faith there is magic in the night. You ain’t a beauty, but hey you’re alright, and that’s alright with me.

The first thing that I do when I come out every night is to look at the faces in front of me, very individually.

All people have is hope. That’s what brings the next day and whatever that day may bring. A hope grounded in the real world of living, friendship, work, family.

At the end of every hard day, people find some reason to believe.

The school system only recognizes one type of intelligence. There are so many different types of intelligence.

Some of us are afraid of dying; others of human loneliness. Profane was afraid of land or seascapes like this, where nothing else lived but himself.

One must accept the fact that we have only one companion in this world, a companion who accompanies us from the cradle to the grave – our own self. Get on good terms with that companion – learn to live with yourself.

I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down, Livin’ in the hopeless, hungry side of town, I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime, But is there because he’s a victim of the times.

We live as we dream – alone.

It’s better to look at the sky than live there.

Ecstasy is from the contemplation of things vaster than the individual and imperfectly seen perhaps, by all those that still live.

How surely are the dead beyond death. Death is what the living carry with them. A state of dread, like some uncanny foretaste of a bitter memory. But the dead do not remember and nothingness is not a curse. Far from it.

And live like Nature’s bastards, not her sons.