“I’m laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone, Going home, where the new york city winters aren’t bleedin’ me.”

Far above the golden clouds, the darkness vibrates. The earth is blue. And everything about it is a love song. Everything about it.

By the time I was 12 or 13, I felt that I was special, because I could play the guitar and write songs.

Having a track record to live up to and the history of successes had become a hindrance. It becomes harder to break out of what people expect you to do.

Much of songwriting is simply a mystery.

I don’t consider myself to be a major talent, so the only solace I can take is to hope I’m growing.

How much can you do with two voices? You can sing thirds or you can sing fifths or you can do a background harmony.

Music is sometimes the only benign avenue of communication between antagonists.

I stepped outside to smoke a J and when I came back to the room, everybody just seemed to move.

There is a moment, a chip in time, when leaving home is the lesser crime.

Improvisation is too good to leave to chance.

If you’ll be my body guard, I can be your long lost pal.

Then she kissed me and I realized she probably was right, there must be fifty ways to leave your lover.

So I’ll continue to continue to pretend my life will never end, and flowers never bend with the rainfall.

Who am I to blow against the wind?

When I was 15, I made a solo record. It made Artie very unhappy. He looked upon it as something of a betrayal.

These are the days of miracle and wonder.

Fowls, by winter forced, forsake the floods, and wing their hasty flight to happier lands.

Coaches who shoot par in the summer are the guys I want on my schedule in the winter.

In your hands winter is a book with cloud pages that snow pearls of love.

When winter withers – my bones begin to thaw, my lungs crackle as they expand, and the blood in my veins start to flow and I awaken from hibernation – hungry for happiness and eager to let go.

A wooded winter trail awaits, no footprints pressed upon the snow – a path I dared not once to take but now – I must go.

Write. No amount of self-inflicted misery, altered states, black pullovers or being publicly obnoxious will ever add up to your being a writer. Writers write. On you go.

People don’t notice whether it’s winter or summer when they’re happy.

Her sadness clung to her like a cloak in the whitest of winters.