You shouldn't let other people get your kicks for you.

I just wanted a song to sing, and there came a point where I couldn't sing anything...nobo dy else was writing what I wanted to sing. I couldn't find it anywhere. If I could I probably would never have started writing.

I'm inconsistent, even to myself.

Silvio, I gotta go, find out something only dead men know.

Now all the criminals in their suits and ties are free to drink martinis and watch the sunrise

I was lingering out on the pavement. There was a missing person inside of myself and I needed to find him . . . I felt done for, an empty burned-out wreck . . . Wherever I am, I'm a '60s troubadour, a folk-rock relic, a wordsmith from bygone days, a fictitious head of state from a place nobody knows.

It frightens me, the awful truth, of how sweet life can be.