The highest purpose of art is to inspire.

Fortune or fame, you must pick one or the other, though neither of them are to be what they claim.

Everybody's wearing a disguise, to hide what they've got left behind their eyes.

Don't know which one is worse, doing your own thing or just being cool.

Disillusioned words like bullets bark as human gods aim for their mark.

Anger and jealousy's all that he sells us, he's content when you're under his thumb. Madmen oppose him, but your kindness throws him, to survive it you play deaf and dumb.

They self-inflict punishment on their own broken lives, put their faith in their possessions, in their jobs, or their wives.

Too much information about nothing.

Art is the perpetual motion of illusion. The highest purpose of art is to inspire. What else can you do? What else can you do for any one but inspire them?