I also just accept that I might never want to write a song again.

I want to move back to the East Coast. I like Venice, but L.A. is ugly. I would kill myself if I had to look out the window and see some places in L.A. every day.

When I came in from Paris recently, for some reason the guy from customs wanted to know what kind of music I wrote. I was like, "I really want to please you so you don't keep me here, but I have no answer to that."

What will an angel say that the devil wants to know?

Home is where my habits have a habitat

Heaven help me for the way I am, save me from these evil deeds before I get them done.

The early cars already are drawing deep breaths past my door. And last night's phrases sick with lack of basis are still writhing on my floor.