Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am.

Inside the museum infinity goes up on trial. Voices echo, 'This is what salvation must be like after a while.' But Mona Lisa must have had the highway blues; you can tell by the way she smiles.

When I think of mystery, I don't think about myself. I think of the universe, like why does the moon rise when the sun falls? Caterpillars turn into butterflies? I really haven't remained a recluse.

I started writing songs after I heard Hank Williams.

I don't write the songs; I just write 'em down.

Stay free of petty jealousies, live by no man's code, and hold your judgment for yourself, lest you wind up on this road.

I used to think it's better if you just live and die and no one knows who you are.