I drink a lot, probably too much. My scene while writing lyrics is always a bottle of scotch and stacks of note cards, pencil and pencil sharpener. I throw around note cards and drink.

I love you more than I have ever found a way to say to you.

I do think that when you make repeated mistakes, it's usually because you're just not coming to grips with something.

The cruelest lies are often told without a word The kindest truths are often spoken, never heard

I'm older than I was, and I'm still washed-up, and I haven't changed my music one iota. It's just much easier to do this when people are being nice to you.

The clock never stops, never stops, never waits. We're growing old. It's getting late.

And all I really want to say is you're the reason I want to stay.

Notes don't make music until you learn to insert silence between them.

I feel like a quote out of context, withholding the rest so I can be for you what you want to see.

A lot of 18-year-olds are like old men. They think they've seen everything.

I'm aware that I'm very fringe, and it's nice that way.

Democracy

Who is that blond child laughing as he runs after his colored marbles? [my marbles]It's meAnd who is the poet writing this poem?That blond child who laughed as he ran after his colored marbles

As it turns out social scientists have established only one fact about single women's mental health: employment improves it.

Lately, the world felt fragile, like a blown egg, as if it might shatter beneath a careless touch.

In the end, it is important to remember that we cannot become what we need to be by remaining what we are.

Every time we give our word, it counts. For the most part, people give their word entirely too often. Our word is a precious commodity and should be treated as such.

In the end, you write the book that grabs you by the throat and demands to be written.

The obvious danger is that in some situations [denial] can lead to procrastination in seeking help or to avoidance of action that might prevent harm.

No one is to blame for our miseries but ourselves.

Like the lily That once was mistress of the field and flourished, I'll hang my head and perish.