Pushing the boundaries of my golden cage, searching for new ways of expression and freedom, unveiling the ambiguities between music and art, friendship and love—that was my summer of 1979.
We start our lives with blues . . . with music. It's our first language. It's the rhythm of the womb. It's your mama's heartbeat inside your head.
Music is very personal. It means different things to different people. To you it means belonging. To me it means knowing I exist.
Music helps to forget This forsaken tomb, That is my abode Cellars down Far below Under the ground, ...
From oriole to crow, note the decline In music. Crow is realist. But, then, Oriole, also, may be realist.
I move onward, through the colors and cheers and music, floating into my future, and it is a clear, open space that stretches wider that the sky and higher than the Andes.
The dancing vortex of a sacred metaphor clashes horns and halos to make wounded music set to the tempo of a new era in brilliant labor.
If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.
To save the environment—and my childhood memories, I merged a gas station pump with a jukebox. Look, my car now runs on 80s music!
I realized June had never been just a month music... never just a tremble on my lips warmth was never merely a blanket.
The truth of existence was a happiness separated from the easy happy life. There was music in the forest. There was clean air where nobody could hear him breathe.
Love moves in sync with the cadence of forgiveness, sings in tune with the melody of acceptance, and dances in rhythm with the music of companionship.
A culture which doesn't believe in region and religion is like a rock music, noise for old generation & nirvana for the young ones.
He could tell by the way animals walked that they were keeping time to some kind of music. Maybe it was the song in their own hearts that they walked to.
Because if we were all created idealists, then life was bound to be one relentless disappointment. But then, there was also music. We unlearned the lies with one hand and repeated them with the other.
Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
He moved like a dancer, which is not surprising; a horse is a beautiful animal, but it is perhaps most remarkable because it moves as if it always hears music.
My feet are dense with dance. I move like I’m wearing concrete boots and I’m trying to tread water. If the music is salsa, I may start gargling.
Is there any other time to be dancing alone to 50s music than 5 AM? I wish my grandpa thought so, because I’m trying to sleep in the ballroom.
The cat hair floated in the air like a sound vibration, and I plucked it like a guitar string. Sometimes I can be so musical I’m like a living love song.
The harmonica has musical wind, and is the breath of soul. It’s like a sad, lonely I love you lost in the breeze.
