And I wish that I was made of stone So that I would not have to see A beauty impossible to define A beauty impossible to believe A beauty impossible to endure The blood imparted in little sips The smell of you still on my hands As I bring the cup up to my lips No God up in the sky No devil beneath the sea Could do the job that you did, baby Of bringing me to my knees

To my undying shame, I do read reviews. I don't read them all, but I like to get some kind of idea how things are going.

I've always been at war with the guitar. All vocalists are fighting a war with the electric rhythm guitar.

I became a script writer with absolutely no idea of how to write a script whatsoever. I still feel a bit of an outsider in that regard. If I can maintain that approach to screenwriting, it can continue to be enjoyable.

My music has to do with beauty, and it's intended to, if not lift the spirits, then be a kind of a balm to the spirits.

I love performing. I can get to be that person I always wanted to be - godlike.

Guns are part of the American psyche, aren't they? This is collateral damage for having a Wild West mentality. It's intrinsic to the American psyche. It's never going to change.