Let there be songs to fill the air.

Perhaps people don't come into their true maturity until a parent dies.

But I would rather be with you, somewhere in San Francisco on a back porch in July, just looking up to Heaven, at this crescent in the sky

One man gathers what another man spills

Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world.

There are things you can replace, and others you cannot. The time has come to weigh those things, this space is getting hot.

Every song falls short of the glory of what a song could be. That's why the urge is there to start again and yet again. Often it's the fault of rhyme. I've discovered a hundred times that there just aren't enough rhymes to say what I wanted to say, so I said something else instead. Sometimes it was a better thing, but the thing I meant to say went unsaid. So there's an opening for another song.