On the day of my judgment, when I stand before God, and He asks me why did I kill one of his true miracles, what am I gonna say? That it was my job? My job?
Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.
I'm tired, boss. Tired of bein' on the road, lonely as a sparrow in the rain. Tired of not ever having me a buddy to be with, or tell me where we's coming from or going to, or why. Mostly I'm tired of people being ugly to each other. I'm tired of all the pain I feel and hear in the world everyday.
In Sicily, women are more dangerous than shotguns.
Only don't tell me you're innocent. Because it insults my intelligence and makes me very angry.
People hurt the ones they love. That's how it is all around the world.