No One Masters The Heart.

Some People, It [songwriting] Comes Faster. Some People, It Comes Slower.

I Am Running Through A Snowfall Which Is Her Thighs, He Dramatized In Purple. Her Thighs Are Filling Up The Street. Wide As A Snowfall, Heavy As Huge Falling Zeppelins, Her Damp Thighs Are Settling On The Sharp Roofs And Wooden Balconies. Weather-vanes Press The Shape Of Roosters And Sail-boats Into The Skin. The Faces Of Famous Statues Are Preserved Like Intaglios.

No Penance Serves To Renew Them, No Massive Transfusions Of Trust. Why Not Even Revenge Can Undo Them, So Twisted These Vows And So Crushed.

It's Easy To Look Down From The Summit You've Reached, Or Even The Summit I've Reached, And Talk About The Responsibilities Of The Artist, But Most People Are Just Trying To Get Their Foot In The Door And Make A Living.

The Last Refuge Of The Insomniac Is A Sense Of Superiority To The Sleeping World.