The juices never stop flowing. I still write songs.
The mercy of the world is time. Time does not stop for love, but it does not stop for death and grief, either.
Time passes irrevocably.
No court can make time stand still.
I will always have my songs and I don't think I will ever dry-up.
All time is all time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is.
My songs are always on the tip of my tongue. It's always bubbling and brewing and about to come out. I can't really put it into words, but the best way to explain it is feeling like you constantly have some things on the tip of your tongue.
You can't argue with a river, it isgoing to flow.You can dam it up?put it to useful purposes?deflect it, but you can't argue with it.
When it comes to sitting down and composing, there is no hesitation, no concern, no critics breathing fire down my neck. For me, writing a song is the purest part of all. No one can mess with that.
The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.
I opened my veins. Unstoppably life spurts out with no remedy. Now I set out bowls and plates. Every bowl will be shallow. Every plate will be small. And overflowing their rims, into the black earth, to nourish the rushes unstoppably without cure, gushes poetry.
Ah! The seasons of love roll not backward but onward, downward forever.
Before I can finish one song, another is knocking on my door in my head.
