She Speaks With A Stutter And She

An Artist Is Always In The State Of Becoming.

I Think A Poet Is Anybody Who Wouldn't Call Himself A Poet.

And I Hope That You Die And Your Death'll Come Soon I Will Follow Your Casket In The Pale Afternoon And I'll Watch While You're Lowered Down To Your Deathbed And I'll Stand O'er Your Grave 'til I'm Sure That You're Dead

Ain't No Use Jiving, Ain't No Use Joking, Everything Is Broken.

How Many Roads Must A Man Walk Down Before Your Can Call Him A Man? . . . The Answer, My Friend, Is Blowin' In The Wind, The Answer Is Blowin' In The Wind.