Every wave is new until it breaks.

This old world keeps spinnin' round; It's a wonder tall trees ain't layin' down.

Music cannot be called otherwise than the sister of painting, for she is dependent upon hearing, a sense second to sight, and her harmony is composed of the union of its proportional parts sounded simultaneously, rising and falling in one or more harmonic rhythms.

The water wears away the mountains and fills up the valleys, and if it had the power it would reduce the earth to a perfect sphere.

We need to grow food, and we need to grow fuel. Imagine if, instead of dust rising into the sky, the carbon started returning to the Earth.

We have to get to the point where we all come together, and we realize that we're all on the same Earth, and there's one way we can fix it.