Instead of just looking back, whiplash-style, I can assume there's something else coming. Time just folds over itself, like origami.

I spent some time in France, visited Egypt and Mexico City. I hung out, biked around, planted some tomatoes. I did everything except wake up in a new town everyday. It was really boring. It's just life.

I'm in the countryside outside of Paris, in a beautiful old manor house. The studio is in the basement, but we decided to set everything up in the old parlor and dining-room area so we can look at each other and (at) the sunshine coming through the stained-glass windows. It's pretty idyllic, and I think it's spoiling me. I'll have to go back to regular life after this.

I think that's more a reflection of the fact I've never been a student of any particular school of writing, or even listening.

I just went to Europe, spent a year traveling, and then I came home with a finished album and said, "Hey everyone I'm back!" I gave everyone their lighters from Luxembourg, gave them the postcards from Italy and Rome, then said, "Hey look, I made a record, too" and played it for them. The general reaction was shock, because it was so different from what they've known me to do.

Probably, on some subconscious level, I was motivated by not wanting to spoon-feed any similar flavors.

I'm a nostalgic person and I really like rehashing and digging around the mental trunks.