The rhythm is below me, the rhythm of the heat. The rhythm is around me, the rhythm has control. The rhythm is inside me, the rhythm has my soul.

Holding still for a moment, what a moment this is, Oh for a moment of forgetting, a moment of bliss

Deadlines are things that we pass through on the way to finishing.

I try when I'm writing to fill my head and my ears with all sorts of stuff and then let it settle and filter through. At a certain point it seems like fruitless activity because you're taking a lot of time and not seeming to get anything. And then, slowly, you realize you've actually digested elements and that your thinking is being freed up and the way you build up compositions is changed as a result of what you've been listening to.

The earthly power sucks shadowed milk from sleepy tears undone, from nippled skin as smooth as silk the bugles blown as one.

Words, they climb all over you/'Til they uncover you From where you hide.

In your eyes I see the doorway to a thousand churches.