If I could act like This was my real life, And not some cage where I've been placed, Well then, I could tell you The truth like I used to And not be afraid of sounding fake.

For a song I was bought Now I lie when I talk With a careful eye on the cue card. Onto a stage I was pushed, With my sorrow well rehearsed. So give me all your pity and your money, now (all of it).

I believe that vinyl will outlast CDs.

My feeling is that I think writers in general tend to be self-conscious and it takes a bit of a leap of faith or just not giving a sh-t to write something you know people are going to criticize.

In a coma, you don't dream, you just hope that someone sits with you.

My head's a carousel of pictures and The spinning never stops.

I think there's a danger, for me at least, in retreating and going inward and depression. I have to stay diligent against that tendency.