So, in this way of writing without thinking,/ Thou hast a strange alacrity in sinking.

His drink, the running stream; his cup, the bare / Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard, cold ground.

His withered fist still knocking at Death's door.

A flowerless room is a soulless room, to my way of thinking; but even on solitary little vase of a living flower may redeem it.

He's ready. You've got have the mentality you never know what's going to happen. I'm thinking like him. You never know what could happen so you've got to be ready to and help the team win.

I didn't know what I wanted to do next as far as records. I felt I had a writing block, and I wanted to do something new and fresh.