Every writer at the New Yorker is smarter than me.

You swore you'd never compromise With the mystery tramp, but now you realise He's not selling any alibis As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes And say, do you want to make a deal How does it feel

Seven shots ring out like the ocean's pounding roar, there's seven people dead on a South Dakota farm.

Being noticed can be a burden. Jesus got himself crucified because he got himself noticed. So I disappear a lot.

Music attracts the angels in the universe.

In the dime stores and bus stations, people talk of situations, read books, repeat quotations, draw conclusions on the wall.

There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun, and it's been the ruin of many a poor boy and God I know I'm one.