I have a deep rooted folk sensibility that I can't get away from completely.

I have a recording that I did of instrumental songs.

I am producing sounds that people are not used to hearing from the harp.

And a thimble's worth of milky moon Can touch hearts larger than a thimble.

And all that we built, and all that we breathed And all that we spilled or pulled up like weeds Is piled up in back and it burns irrevocably And we spoke up in turns 'til the silence crept over me.

I wasn't interested in writing music that wasn't beautiful for me to listen to.

I never thought people would be mortally offended by the sounds I was making.