For Years I Supported Capital Punishment, But

I Felt Like I Had Lost Something. But Not Something Silly, Like My Keys Or My Gum; More Like My Arm Or My Foot, Something That Really Mattered. Like Something That I Could Live Without, But Would Make Life Much Harder If It Were Missing. And Life Is Hard Enough. Life Is Hard Enough With Everything We're Given.

Leonard Asks Me If There's Anything I Need To Know Before He Dies, I Think About It For A Minute, Turn To Him, Say What's The Meaning Of Life, Leonard? He Laughs, Says That's An Easy One, My Son, It's Whatever You Want It To Be.

There Are No Words And There Is No Singing, But The Music Has A Voice. It Is An Old Voice And A Deep Voice, Like The Stump Of A Sweet Cigar Or A Shoe With A Hole. It Is A Voice That Has Lived And Lives, With Sorrow And Shame, Ecstasy And Bliss, Joy And Pain, Redemption And Damnation. It Is A Voice With Love And Without Love. I Like The Voice, And Though I Can't Talk To It, I Like The Way It Talks To Me. It Says It Is All The Same, Young Man. Take It And Let It Be.

What Someone Calls My Books Is Irrelevant To Me. I Consider Them Works Of Art And Rules And Categories And Labels Mean Nothing.

The Promise Of Eternal Life Makes People Forsake The Life They're Given.