Ah, Grief Makes Us Precise!

Suzanne Had A Room On A Waterfront Street In The Port Of Montreal. Everything Happened Just As It Was Put Down. She Was The Wife Of A Man I Knew. Her Hospitality Was Immaculate. Some Months Later I Sang It For Judy Collins Over The Telephone. The Publishing Rights Were Lost In New York City, But It Is Probably Appropriate That I Don't Own This Song. Just The Other Day I Heard Some People Singing It On A Ship In The Caspian Sea.

We Used To Play Music For Fun. Much More Than Now. Now Nobody Picks Up A Guitar Unless They're Paid For It.

Prayer Is Translation. A Man Translates Himself Into A Child Asking For All There Is In A Language He Has Barely Mastered.

What [prozac] Does Is Completely Annihilate The Sexual Drive, So The Question Of Passion Hardly Arises.

I'd Written A Lot Of Songs With Hummingbirds In Them. None Of Them Ever Came To Anything, But I Did Write A Few Lines Last Month. It Went Like This: 'listen To The Hummingbird Whose Wings You Cannot See. Listen To The Hummingbird, Don't Listen To Me'.