You are my drug of choiceI know you’re no good for meAnd though I swear my lipsWill never touch you againHere we are, here we are.

Under a night’s skyFilled with a hundred billion starsIs it so crazy to believeOur paths were destined to cross?

What a cruel irony it is, that we get to choose our thoughts but not our feelings.

Sometimes it feels like even ifEvery inch of my skin was touching yoursI still wouldn’t be close enough to you.

Love gives the best of highsBut also the worst of hangovers.

As joy dwindles with the yearsI wistfully recallWhen the christmas treeLooked ten feet tallAnd the presents under itSeemed endless And more Than mere wrapping paper.

Fate is the cruelest of masters, takingLife when it pleases or at random, handingRigged decks to whom it pleases, cheatingAll alike and none the wiser, takingEverything away from those with nothing.

I wish I could see butterflies burst from cocoonsWithout tempering my amazementKnowing all beauty eventually dies.

As artists, we create the beautyWe are too afraid to live outAnd search, but always fall just shyOf finding what life is about.

Question marks are met with periodsBy people full of arroganceThey have every answer, nothing mysteriousAnd yet they have no evidence.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't want youI'd be lying if I said I didn't wish you were mineThe truth is, you stole my heart from afarThe truth is, you still have it.

We have had enough of the old men and the money-counters!" And people further off took up the cry: "Up Bowman, and down with the moneybags,

Where would Jesus be if no one ever wrote the gospels?

And if flying, like a glass-bottomed bucket, can give you that vision, that seeing eye, which peers down on the still world below the choppy waves - it will always remain magic.

Whoever lacks the initiative to read books stifles his own selfhood.

Half the wrong conclusions at which mankind arrive are reached by the abuse of metaphors, and by mistaking general resemblance or imaginary similarity for real identity.

I have to make good things so good comedians want to talk to me.

All I want is a gentleman. I'm sick to bloody death of bastards.

I got the stamina. I can close.

In all political regulations, good cannot be complete, it can only be predominant.

If you leave, we lose and our pasts win.