Anything is hard to find when you will not open your eyes

I am stuck in the dream of an album that sells well not because of marketing, but because people like the songs.

It begins in the heart...and it hurts when it's true. It only hurts because it's true.

I've only been to Ireland once, and I felt I would wake up with voices in my head, almost like music, and that if I were a songwriter, I would be very inspired.

It's so shameful of me: I like you.

I used to dream, and I used to vow; I wouldn't dream of it now.

I am the son and the heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar.