It's amazing, the amount of detail and thought that goes into just an average day. Between the things you see on the news, or on the subway, or whatever, it all gets in there. You sort of shut most of it out, but it all goes in.

I find everything a struggle.

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

October's gold is dim — the forests rot, The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the day Is wrapped in damp.

And come, blue deeps! magnificently strown With coloured clouds - large, light, and fugitive.

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

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.