When I was growing up, there were two things that were unpopular in my house. One was me, and the other was my guitar.

You can hide beneath the covers and study your pain, make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain. Waste your summer praying in vain, for a savior to rise from these streets.

I guess there's just a meanness in this world

Is a dream a lie if it don't come true? Or is it something worse?

When I die throw my body in the back and drive me to the junk yard in my Cadillac.

Pessimism and optimism are slammed up against each other in my records, the tension between them is where it's all at, it's what lights the fire.

When I was young, it was sort of built to intimidate. Even on this very local level in this very small church in this small town, it still held that sort of - held you in the palm of its darkness.