Hamlet Got A Gun Now.

A Gentleman Never Talks About His Tailor.

If I'm Hanging Around Too Much, My Wife And Kids Say, 'hey, Why Don't You Go Downstairs And Start A New Novel?'

There's An Element To Songwriting That I Can't Explain, That Comes From Somewhere Else. I Can't Explain That Dividing Line Between Nothing And Something That Happens Within A Song, Where You Have Absolutely Nothing, And Then Suddenly You Have Something. It's Like The Origin Of The Universe.

Sometimes The Song Isn't Strong Enough To Contain The Fiction, Because Memories Are Fictions.

And I Wish That I Was Made Of Stone So That I Would Not Have To See A Beauty Impossible To Define A Beauty Impossible To Believe A Beauty Impossible To Endure The Blood Imparted In Little Sips The Smell Of You Still On My Hands As I Bring The Cup Up To My Lips No God Up In The Sky No Devil Beneath The Sea Could Do The Job That You Did, Baby Of Bringing Me To My Knees