I'm almost six feet tall and have a deep voice. People never knew how to cast me.

People ask me how far I've come. And I tell them twelve feet: from the audience to the stage.

If some of the people who write about mojo came with me for a week, they would drop dead on their feet.

I'm in fact a hair under six feet, but I'm very svelte. People would never see me if I turned sideways.

Sometimes, at parties, people demand I tell a joke. It's like pointing a gun at my feet and telling me to dance.

I'm used to people being a mile away. That suits me. It's more nerve-wracking playing in front of people who are two feet away from me.

Weight training and working on being explosive helped me gain a few yards of pace. Even when I was small, I was stocky. Even if people pushed me, I managed to stay on my feet.

I wish I could avoid the people who have threatened me. My favorite threat is that I will be thrown in the River Miljacka, which is at most knee-deep, with my feet bound in cement.

You can always recognise my restless peers and me; we are the people whose feet you hear tramping along the pavement at the other end of the phone line because we can only make calls while moving.

Childhood was terrifying for me. A kid has no control. You're three feet tall, flat broke, unemployed, and illiterate. Terror snaps you awake. You pay keen attention. People can just pick you up and move you and put you down.

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