The words of a dead man are modified in the guts of the living.
He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
Learn from your dreams what you lack.
The center that I cannot find is known to my unconscious mind.
Music can be made anywhere, is invisible and does not smell.
You know there are no secrets in America. It's quite different in England, where people think of a secret as a shared relation between two people.
