In Montreal spring is like an autopsy. Everyone wants to see the inside of the frozen mammoth. Girls rip off their sleeves and the flesh is sweet and white, like wood under green bark. From the streets a sexual manifesto rises like an inflating tire, “the winter has not killed us again!

The troubles came and I saved what I could save. A thread of light, a particle, a wave.

I swear by this song and by all that I have done wrong, I will make it all up to thee.

We're in a world where there's famine and hunger and people are dodging bullets and having their nails pulled out in dungeons so it's very hard for me to place any high value on the work that I do to write a song. Yeah, I work hard but compared to what?

Maybe we, the cultural workers , could apply ourselves. We're not going to resolve it in this moment or even in this generation, but perhaps as some kind of agenda we could invite our writers and cultural workers to address the problem a little more responsibly, because people are suffering tremendously from a want of data.

Any of the decisions that I made, if one could actually locate a shape or form, were all within a wall, the landscape of music.

As the mist leaves no scar On the dark green hill So my body leaves no scar On you and never will