If somebody ever says something is a mature theme, it's bound to not be. I mean, you shouldn't fall for that. You can make it sound mature, but anything that's about being mature is pretty immature.

The things that keep me awake at night are things like textures and instrumentation and plotting out what things are going to do and what the sounds are that I'm trying to capture.

There's always room for improvement. I'm always focused on the results, and those are the precise things that I don't really experience as a part of the performance.

I dont think I threw myself into music because I had the best intentions; it was because I was really angry.

I always wanted to get into rock music so I could cover up my real personality, change my voice, and create a false self to hide behind.

I love everybody. You have to embrace all facets of humanity; love and accept everyone as being part of yourself.

I get to live down my reputation for being cantankerous if I slowly evolve towards being a really good live show.

I'm not dissatisfied, just not satisfied in an ultimate sense.

I never see songs as permanent. I'm always in a state of revising everything.

My goal is to make something special and pure, and that keeps me going, keeps me busy on the path of sobriety.

I procrastinate, and I push writing to the last available moment, because I don't like to settle on anything. I guess you can call it indecision or you can call it holding out for inspiration.

Practice makes perfect, but nobody's perfect, so why practice?

Nobody would have been able to understand the depth of my joy and the extent of my happiness unless they had themselves gone through what I just had.

Choosing forgiveness opens the door of your heart and makes way for a miracle in your life.

I don't want no drummer. I set the tempo.

And that is a story that no one can beat, When I say that I saw it on Mulberry Street.

There is nothing more marvelous than doing something you love to do and getting paid for it. It ceases to become work, money, and effort; and it becomes fun, your expression of the joy of life.

In the life of one man, never The same time returns.

Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.

Philologists, who chase A painting syllable through time and space Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's Ark.

The liberties of a people depend on their own constant attention to its preservation.