We In Purgatory Sing Fondly Of Hell.

English Words Are Like Prisms. Empty, Nothing Inside, And Still They Make Rainbows.

All His Life Robert Grainier Would Remember Vividly The Burned Valley At Sundown, The Most Dreamlike Business He’d Ever Witnessed Waking—the Brilliant Pastels Of The Last Light Overhead, Some Clouds High And White, Catching Daylight From Beyond The Valley, Others Ribbed And Gray And Pink, The Lowest Of Them Rubbing The Peaks Of Bussard And Queen Mountains; And Beneath This Wondrous Sky The Black Valley, Utterly Still, The Train Moving Through It Making A Great Noise But Unable To Wake This Dead World.

The Movie's Not Over Till Everybody's Dead.

I Think It's Silly For Anyone To Think You Could Write Under The Influence, But If They'd Like To Think That, I'd Like To Keep The Legend Alive. Maybe I Was Under The Influence When I Wrote Jesus' Son And I Just Didn't Know It.

What's Funny About Jesus' Son Is That I Never Even Wrote That Book, I Just Wrote It Down. I Would Tell These Stories And People Would Say, You Should Write These Things Down.