I'm writing all the time. And as the songs begin to coalesce, I'm not doing anything else but writing. I wish I were one of those people who wrote songs quickly. But I'm not. So it takes me a great deal of time to find out what the song is.

I alwaysthought of myself as a competent, minor poet. I know who I'm up against.

I will not be held like a drunkard / under the cold tap of facts

She was made of flesh and eyelashes.

I'm planning a catastrophe.

The term clinical depression finds its way into too many conversations these days. One has a sense that a catastrophe has occurred in the psychic landscape.

We are ugly but we have the music.