As he hums the melody softly into my ear, I can feel the notes seep deep into my skin and bones, and birth an ache in my soul I never knew existed. What is this, if not impossible?

I'm looking at you through the glassDon't know how much time has pastOh God it feels like foreverBut no one tells that forever feels like homeSitting all alone in your head

Fear of living onNatives getting restless nowMutiny in the airGot some death to doMirror stares back hardKill, it's such a friendly wordSeems the only wayFor reaching out again.

It's time, my childrenWhen the waves rise high When the waters run deepWhen the clock strikes midnightYou'll feel the mark of Zero HourAnd you'll never be the same again

We throw stones though we live in glass houses,We talk shit like its a cross to bare.You're only relevant 'til you get older.Keep your friends close, and your enemies close

The lullaby had the kind of tune everyone thinks they've heard before but can't remember where. A tune like that floats in the air all the time and now and then you catch it.

Inside a song has always been the one place I'm most at home. Music never abused me, never made me sick never tried to kill me. Music is the one thing I can't afford to lose.

Im not going to change my ways, just to please you or appease you, inside a crowd five billion proud willing to punch it out, right, wrong, weak strong, ashes to ashes all fall down.

If I knew I was going to die at a specific moment in the future, it would be nice to be able to control what song I was listening to; this is why I always bring my iPod on airplanes.

Listening over and over to the voices through a family of instruments allowed us to recognize and appreciate the dignity and uniqueness of each living thing in the meadow and forest.

Who needs to be a Phoenix for rebirth? One simply requires themselves and an instrument to clean the slate and start over, perhaps create their own world where everything is better..

Next to the Word of God, music deserves the highest praise. The gift of language combined with the gift of song was given to man that he should proclaim the Word of God through Music.

He was making music - Howells, Finzi, Holst - so you could see the sounds in the serried air.Serried. Then just as suddenly empty when his sound-proof right hand closed off the notes.

he was home on his own and listening to the sort of music he needed to listen to when he felt like this, music that seemed to find the sore spot in him and press up hard against it...

Your hand fits in mineLike it's made just for meBut bear this in mindIt was meant to beAnd I'm joining up the dots with the freckles on your cheeksAnd it all makes sense to me