I Got This Grave Yard Woman.

They Self-inflict Punishment On Their Own Broken Lives, Put Their Faith In Their Possessions, In Their Jobs, Or Their Wives.

I Can Picture The Color Of The Song, Or The Shape Of It, Or Who It Is That I'm Trying To Appeal To, In The Song, And What I'm Trying To, Almost, Reinforce My Feelings For. And I Know That Sounds Sort Of Vague And Abstract, But I've Got A Handle On It When I'm Doing It.

Patriotism Is The Last Refuge To Which A Scoundrel Clings.

In My Childhood Everything You Heard, You Could Imagine What It Looked Like. Even Singers That I Would Hear On The Radio, I Couldn't See What They Looked Like, So I Imagined What They Looked Like. What They Were Wearing. What Their Movements Were. Gene Vincent? When I First Pictured Him, He Was A Tall, Lanky Blond-haired Guy.

I Dug It, New York City, All-the Streets And The Snows And The Starving And The Five-flight Walkups And Sleeping In Rooms With Ten People. I Dug The Trains And The Shadows, The Way I Dug Ore Mines And Coal Mines. I Just Jumped Right To The Bottom Of New York.