“I’m going to be a superstar musician, kill myself, and go out in a flame of glory.”

Life isn’t nearly as sacred as the appreciation of passion.

I use bits and pieces of others personalities to form my own.

Music is energy. A mood, atmosphere. Feeling.

If it’s illegal to rock and roll, then throw my ass in jail.

Forever in debt to your priceless advice.

All in all is all we are.

No True Talent is fully organic.

I am not well read, but when I do read, I read well.

Nobody dies a virgin. Life fucks us all.

Music is energy. A mood, atmosphere. Feeling.

Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.

It’s better to burn out than to fade away.

We’re so trendy we can’t even escape ourselves.

If you die you’re completely happy and your soul somewhere lives on.

Punk is musical freedom. It’s saying, doing and playing what you want. In Webster’s terms, ‘nirvana’ means freedom from pain, suffering and the external world, and that’s pretty close to my definition of Punk Rock.

Thank you for the tragedy. I need it for my art.

You know, there’s a big lie in this business. The lie is that it’s okay to go out in flames. But that doesn’t do anybody much good. I may be wrong, but I think Hendrix was trying to come around.

For a country without a past is nothing, a word That, hardly spoken, loses its meaning, A perishable wall destroyed by flame, An echo of animal emotions.

Death is a mighty mediator. There all the flames of rage are extinguished, hatred is appeased, and angelic pity, like a weeping sister, bends with gentle and close embrace over the funeral urn.

Young love is a flame; very pretty, often very hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. The love of the older and disciplined heart is as coals, deep-burning, unquenchable.

Talent is a flame, but genius is a fire.

Heart of Jesus, burning with love for us, inflame our hearts with love of Thee.

A boy comes to me with a spark of interest. I feed the spark and it becomes a flame. I feed the flame and it becomes a fire. I feed the fire and it becomes a roaring blaze.

Do ghosts get tired of haunting? Of chasing old flames in darkness, of walking through dreams casting shadows against walls, against hearts, do they feel themselves forgotten?