That's what music is for me. It's a place to go to.
There's nightingales calling, shooting stars falling, like jewels in the rain.
I'm absolutely flooded with a raucous energy to get out into the world and tell my story again. I feel like this is spring. After a period of shriveling, out come the leaves.
Wonder in everything No matter how great or small... Same thing that's scrawled across the stars Is written under our skin... There's a time to search for understanding Sometimes you just got to sing New horizons, new horizon within
Love after divorce is all about showing and sharing with my son what is good and right in life!
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.
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.
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.
I don't really know why I'm such an emotional person, that's just how I was born. It's a problem. It's not easy to be married to me.
I don't know where emotion emanates from exactly. I'm full of it, that's all I know.
In the creative act, you kind of reach down and look for things that will, when put together, create an emotional effect.
You can't just be reactive to the things going on in your life. You have to imagine, and you have to plunder other people's work, books, poems, ideas, observations.
In terms of writing, I think something happens to you, and you think, "Oh I'm going to write about that. That's an emotional event." But obviously, if you keep going, and it's something you do with regularity, you've got to find other ways to write.
I guess I'm just a heart-on-sleeve type of human being.
October's gold is dim — the forests rot, The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the day Is wrapped in damp.
Night falling on the city
Quite something to behold
Don't it just look so pretty
This disappearing world
And come, blue deeps! magnificently strown With coloured clouds — large, light, and fugitive...
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