Nobody Understands Me, I'm Really Sensitive.

You Know, I'm Fifty-two Now And I Call Myself A Singer. Before I Kick It I Want To Be Able To Carry A Tune In A Living Room If Called Upon. Of Course, Mine Come Out All Dark And Twisted And Weird.

I Have A Hot Memory, But I Know I've Forgotten Many Things, Too, Just Squashed Things In Favor Of Survival.

I Think That Prosecuting Some College Kid Because She Shared A File Is A Lot Like Sending Somebody To Australia 200 Years Ago For Poaching His Lordship's Rabbit. That's How It Must Seem To Poor People Who Just Want To Watch A Crappy Movie For Free After They’ve Been Working Themselves To Death All Day At Tesco Or Whatever, You Know.

How Am I Going To Listen To That Horrible Noise I Make Without A Gram Of Coke And A Couple Of Double Jack Daniels?

The Key To The Doors Is The Culture Behind The Myth.