“Much of songwriting is simply a mystery.”

People often called us perfectionists, but we were not looking for perfection. We were looking for some kind of magic in the music.

There are two sorts of people in the world: Those who listen and those who are thinking about what they are going to say next.

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

Time it was And what a time it was, it was A time of innocence A time of confidences Long ago it must be I have a photograph Preserve your memories They’re all that’s left you.

There must be 50 ways to leave your lover.

All lies and jests, still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest.

I’ve got a reason to believe we all be received in Graceland, Graceland, Memphis Tennessee.

I regret the ending of our friendship and hope one day before we die, we’ll make peace with each other . . . No rush.

It was easier than explaining DiMaggio’s use as a metaphor.

And so you see I have come to doubt -All that I once held as true ~ I stand alone without beliefs -The only truth I know is you

You want to be a writer, don’t know how or when? Find a quiet place, use a humble pen.

The phrasing didn’t work as well.

Believing I had supernatural powers, I slammed into a brick wall.

Artie is a singer, and I’m a writer and player and a singer. We didn’t work together on a creative level and prepare the songs. I did that.

Losing love is like a window in your heart.

Just slip out the back, Jack, make a new plan, Stan, you don’t need to be coy, Roy, just get yourself free. Hop on the bus, Gus, you don’t need to discuss much, just drop off the key, Lee, and get yourself free.