There's an eagle flying above cliff's head and no one can tell which way the bird is headed. He seems so direct and so sincere and he flies so straight. A golden eagle and its golden nature with time to spare. that eagle is going to be mine some day.

I am going to possess the wilderness and I'm going to show it to the world as a clean hospitable place of beauty and not the ugly pathetic landscape we have come to know. There's plenty of gunsmoke in the air. But that doesn't make the beauty less grand. There's plenty of sparks in the air, but that doesn't make the fire bad. Give me some peace.

This part of my composition is a little bit stranger than all the others—it's a lot more verbose. But I love words and love using them. The next generation of words will show that. Words are like leaves dropping off a tree, and they are all precious and dear. There's a place in the back of my bedroom where back there—I'm afraid to go where anyone else writes because the power there might short-circuit my own creativity.

I have no more pencils. I have no more pencils to write with. There's nothing else to say. The drummer boy has a phrase or two he'll let you hear, but not today.

I wish I could just say, "I got this problem, can you help me with it?"