I've never written anything hard to understand, not in my head anyway, and nothing as far out as some of the old songs. They were out of sight. Now I'm going to Turkey flying on my bottle. Chaos, watermelon, clocks, everything. It's like I accept him, does he accept me.
Truth is chaos.
Maybe beauty is chaos. I haven't read Yeats. It's been here longer than I have. I don't know what the songs I write are. I collect things too.