...It's all sort of dreams and it's all illusion. It's theater; it's not real. We're making up stories, you know, and people tend to run into you and believe you are your characters. And I suppose the funny thing is the longer you go, you do become sort of some version of [your characters]. You both diverge from them - you know - you live, but you also permanently inhabit that geography and that mental space - and so you do morph a little bit. We do become what we imagine.

The man on the radio says Elvis Presley's died. We drove to Memphis, the sky was hard and black.

But the star thing I can live with. The music I can't live without. And that's how it lays out for me, you know. I got as big an ego and enjoy the attention.

I got a house full of Rembrandts and priceless art, and all the little girls they wanna tear me apart.

I was a guitar player on the streets of Asbury Park and already a member in good standing amongst those who lie in service of the truth - artists with a small A. But I held four clean aces. I had youth, almost a decade of hardcore bar band experience, a good group of homegrown musicians who were attuned to my performance style, and a story to tell.

I think 1960s small-town America was very Lynchian. Everything was there, but underneath, everything was rumbling.

Just sitting around waiting for my life to begin, while it was all just slipping away.