“I was always accused of being cold and unfeeling. It was because I was intimidated about touching people.”

There’s a thing that just as you go to sleep, if you keep your elbows elevated that you will never go below the dream stage. And I’ve used that quite a lot and it keeps me dreaming much longer than if I just relaxed.

If you come from art, you’ll always be art.

And I think my spaceship knows which way to go.

Turn and face the strange.

Comfort comes into your house first as guest, then as a host, then finally as the master.

Everything we look at and choose is some way of expressing how we want to be perceived.

There, in the chords and melodies, is everything I want to say. The words just jolly it along. It’s always been my way of expressing what for me is inexpressible by any other means.

Secret thinker sometimes listening aloud.

The only art I’ll ever study is stuff I can steal from.

I hate albums that are really happy. When I am really happy, I don’t like to hear happy albums, and when I am really sad I don’t wanna hear happy albums… and I tend to gravitate towards the lonely and isolated anyway when I write.

As you get older, the questions come down to about two or three. How long? And what do I do with the time I’ve got left?

People look to me to see what the spirit of the Seventies is.

I’ll place my love beneath the stars.

I find it easier to write in these little vignettes; if I try to get any more heavy, I find myself out of my league.

All art is unstable. Its meaning is not necessarily that implied by the author. There is no authoritative voice. There are only multiple readings.

I’m always amazed that people take what I say seriously. I don’t even take what I am seriously.

When the air begins to turn colder, a warmth grows in my core that says – it’s time to start new.

Cold sober, I find myself absolutely fascinating.

The virtuous soul that is alone and without a master is like a long lone burning coal; it will grow colder rather than hotter.

All the hardest, coldest people you meet were once as soft as water. And that’s the tragedy of living.

His eyes close, and he draws a long breath. When they open again, they’re colder than ever. “And that’s where you’d be disappointed, Lou.There is no good to be found in Death.

When I speak My lips feel cold – The autumn wind.

If we let our friend become cold and selfish and exacting without a remonstrance, we are no true lover, no true friend.

It’s january, it’s cold and I search the sky for summer like I always do.