I'm Inconsistent, Even To Myself.

The Ghosts Race Towards The Light, You Can Almost Hear The Heavy Breathing Spirits, All Determined To Get Somewhere. New Orleans, Unlike A Lot Of Places You Go Back To And That Don't Have The Magic Anymore, Still Has Got It. Night Can Swallow You Up, Yet None Of It Touches You. You Can't See It, But You Know It's Here. Somebody's Always Sinking.

I Didn't Know Whether To Duck Or To Run, So I Ran.

I Gave Her My Heart But She Wanted My Soul.

Nothing Can Affect My Voice, It's So Bad.

I Think A Poet Is Anybody Who Wouldn't Call Himself A Poet.