“Goodnight, my angel
Now it's time to dream.
And dream how wonderful your life will be.
Someday your child may cry
And if you sing this lullabye
Then in your heart
There will always be a part of me.

Someday we'll all be gone.
But lullabyes go on and on…
They never die.
That's how you
And I
Will be.”

“How do you like me now?
How do you like me now,
Now that I'm on my way?
Do you still think I'm crazy,
Standin here today?
I couldn't make you love me.
But I always dreamed about living in your radio.
How do you like me now?”

“Did you figure out the head fake? It's not about how to achieve your dreams. It's about how to lead your life. If you lead your life the right way, the karma will take care of itself. The dreams will come to you.”

“Clara:
Neighbours, dear friends, ye dream, ye dream : awake!
Gaze not on me with sadly wondering eyes,
I only bid you to your actual wish.
My voice is but the voice of your own hearts.”

“Why you scared? / You'll never change what's been and done
All of the stars / Have faded away / Just try not to worry / You'll see them someday / Take what you need / And be on your way / And stop crying your heart out”

“You used to call me your dreamer,
And now I'm living out my dreams;
Oh, how I wish you could see,
Everything that's happening for me.”

“Goodnight, my angel
Time to close your eyes.
And save these questions for another day.
I think I know what you've been asking me.
I think you know what I've been trying to say.
I promised I would never leave you.
And you should always know
Wherever you may go
No matter where you are
I never will be far away.”

“If I was a junkman selling you cars,
Washing your windows and shining your stars,
Thinking your mind was my own in a dream
What would you wonder and how would it seem?
Living in castles a bit at a time
The King started laughing and talking in rhyme.
Singing words, words between the lines of age.
Words, words between the lines of age.”

“Create dangerously, for people who read dangerously…. Writing, knowing in part that no matter how trivial your words may seem, someday, somewhere, someone may risk his or her life to read them.”

“Writing turns you into somebody who's always wrong. the illusion that you may get it right someday is the perversity that draws you on. What else could? As pathological phenomena go, it doesn't completely wreck your life.”