There ain’t no precious gold comin’ outa that there mountain, if all I wanna do is sit and dream of what I’ll do when I get some.

My father has come to dinner; He does not knock. He is not welcome. He is dead. Yet he insists on joining me

I met a man who told me that he’s looking for the way he might become more free, less encumbered in his life. Poor me, poor me, poor me;

Look out there, see them, boy ? They want yer juice. They’re dry, them circlin’ desert… All they want's yer juice, boy.

Your end? My end? Where the hell’s the middle? You say this. I say that.

Listen. There it is. The hum of perfect silence at the centre of all that is, and isn’t.

Way up there on that hill of yours; that most hard-won ivory tower. Hiding there behind your perfect guise

These words are crude utensils, with which to touch you, and be touched;

I’m not really here right now. I can only be here when no-one’s a… and I know no-one can see me. Even when i speak to you, I’m sort of not really here.