The hollow horn plays wasted words, proves to warn that he not busy being born is busy dying.

So I cut off my hair and I rode straight away, to the wild unknown country where I could not go wrong.

Madonna, she still has not showed, we see this empty cage now corrode, where her cape of the stage once had flowed, the fiddler he now steps to the road, on the back of the fish truck that loads, while my conscience explodes.

You will find God in the church of your choice.

I define nothing. Not beauty, not patriotism. I take each thing as it is, without prior rules about what it should be.

People don't live or die, people just float.

My songs are personal music, they're not communal. I wouldn't want people singing along with me. It would sound funny. I'm not playing campfire meetings. I don't remember anyone singing along with Elvis, Carl Perkins or Little Richard.