You are mysterious. I love you. You’re beautiful, intelligent, and virtuous, and that’s the rarest known combination.
When the mob and the press and the whole world tell you to move, your job is to plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth, and tell the whole world — “No, you move.”
That’s one of the great things about music. You can sing a song to 85,000 people and they’ll sing it back for 85,000 different reasons.
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.