Men To Whom God Is Dead Worship

I Am Not Perfect." It Came Out In A Rush Of Breath. "see I Thought I Was. Thank God I Ain't. See A Perfect Thing Ain't Got A Chance. The World Kills It, Everything Perfect. (listen To Him!) Now See A Thing That Ain't Perfect, It Grows Like A Weed. Yeah, Like A Weed! A Thing That Ain't Perfect Gets Hand Clapping, Smiles, Takes The Wire An Easy Winner. But The World Ain't Set Up Right If You Perfect. You Lible To Run Right Into A Brick Wall. Looks Like Suicide. All The Weeds Say, Looka There, It Suicide!

What The Artist Owes The World Is His Work; Not A Model For Living.

If You Wait Until You Got Time To Write A Novel, Or Time To Write A Story, Or Time To Read The Hundred Thousands Of Books You Should Have Already Read - If You Wait For The Time, You Will Never Do It. ‘cause There Ain’t No Time; World Don’t Want You To Do That. World Wants You To Go To The Zoo And Eat Cotton Candy, Preferably Seven Days A Week.

Writing A Book Is Like Torture That You Don't Know, But After It's Done And There It Is. It's A Joy Like Unlike Anything Else, I Think It's The Closest That A Man Can Come To Knowing What Is Feels Like To Have A Baby.

The Artist Lives In An Atmosphere Of Perpetual Failure.