Lies Like That Are Not A Sin,

She's No Lady. Her Songs Are All Unbelievably Unhappy Or Lewd. It's Called Blues. She Sings About Sore Feet, Sexual Relations, Baked Goods, Killing Your Lover, Being Broke, Men Called Daddy, Women Who Dress Like Men, Working, Praying For Rain. Jail And Trains. Whiskey And Morphine. She Tells Stories Between Verses And Everyone In The Place Shouts Out How True It All Is.

Writing Is A Hellish Task, Best Snuck Up On, Whacked On The Head, Robbed And Left For Dead.

Memory Plays Tricks. Memory Is Another Word For Story, And Nothing Is More Unreliable.

In Terms Of The Secrets That Imbue And Underlie Fall On Your Knees, They Were As Much Of A Mystery To Me As I Was Creating The Story As They Are To The Readers.

The Thief You Must Fear The Most Is Not The One Who Steals Mere Things.