I'm absolutely flooded with a raucous energy to get out into the world and tell my story again. I feel like this is spring. After a period of shriveling, out come the leaves.

I guess I'm just a heart-on-sleeve type of human being.

Everything's stolen. Everything precious - be it a kiss, or be it James Brown - gets misappropriated to the aid of the advertising executives. So, an act of reclamation, somewhere else to be: that's what I want my music to be. Somewhere you can step into. A place.

There's nightingales calling, shooting stars falling, like jewels in the rain.

I don't know where emotion emanates from exactly. I'm full of it, that's all I know.

I don't know what I want, but I know what I don't want: I don't want to just repeat myself.

You can't just be reactive to the things going on in your life. You have to imagine, and you have to plunder other people's work, books, poems, ideas, observations.