Let those who would keep two youthful hearts asunder, beware of music.

I hate music, especially when it's played.

If you’re wearing headphones, or monitoring a text message chain, or, God forbid, narrating the stroll on Instagram — you’re not really walking, and therefore you’re not going to experience this practice’s greatest benefits

If one plays good music, people don't listen, and if one plays bad music people don't talk.

If you think while you walk, you’re not really walking.

You can’t really think hard about what you’re doing and listen to the radio at the same time.

You cannot truly listen to anyone and do anything else at the same time.

This land is your land and this land is my land, sure, but the world is run by those that never listen to music anyway.

Walking and talking are two very great pleasures, but it is a mistake to combine them. Our own noise blots out the sounds and silences of the outdoor world; and talking leads almost inevitably to smoking, and then farewell to nature as far as one of our senses is concerned. The only friend to walk with is one who so exactly shares your taste for each mood of the countryside that a glance, a halt, or at most a nudge, is enough to assure us that the pleasure is shared.

In LA, you can’t do anything unless you drive. Now I can’t do anything unless I drink. And the drink-drive combination, it really isn’t possible out there. If you so much as loosen your seatbelt or drop your ash or pick your nose, then it’s an Alcatraz autopsy with the questions asked later. Any indiscipline, you feel, any variation, and there’s a bullhorn, a set of scope sights, and a coptered pig drawing a bead on your rug.
So what can a poor boy do? You come out of the hotel, the Vraimont. Over boiling Watts the downtown skyline carries a smear of God’s green snot. You walk left, you walk right, you are a bank rat on a busy river. This restaurant serves no drink, this one serves no meat, this one serves no heterosexuals. You can get your chimp shampooed, you can get your dick tattooed, twenty-four hour, but can you get lunch? And should you see a sign on the far side of the street flashing BEEF-BOOZE – NO STRINGS, then you can forget it. The only way to get across the road is to be born there. All the ped-xing signs say DON’T WALK, all of them, all the time. That is the message, the content of Los Angeles: don’t walk. Stay inside. Don’t walk. Drive. Don’t walk. Run!

Don’t walk in front of me… I may not follow
Don’t walk behind me… I may not lead
Walk beside me… just be my friend

Touch not the flute when drums are sounding around; when fools have the word, the wise will be silent.

You don't want to become so open minded that the wind whistles between your ears.

Never do anything if it means you can’t sleep at night.