It just takes a long time for me [to write a song]. I'm very slow. And it comes, kind of, by dribbles and drops.

Raise a million filters and the rain will not be clean, until the longing for it be refined in deep confession.

Maybe there's a God above, As for me, all I've ever seemed to learn from love Is how to shoot at someone who outdrew you. Yeah but it's not a complaint that you hear tonight, It's not the laughter of someone who claims to have seen the light No it's a cold and it's a very lonely Hallelujah.

One is given to self-dramatization from time to time. I intend to live forever.

And most people have a woman in their heart, most men have a woman in their heart and most women have a man in their heart.

As our eyes grow accustomed to sight they armour themselves against wonder.

Out of the thousands who are known or who want to be known as poets, maybe one or two are genuine and the rest are fakes, hanging around the sacred precincts, trying to look like the real thing.