If You Keep Bashing Your Head Against

When I'm In A City That's Just Clean, Concrete Lines, I Get Really Short Of Breath And Confused. It's Much More Interesting To Me When Nature Is Creeping Back And Tearing The Mortar Apart Between The Bricks.

I Don't Want To Take Photographs That I Won't Recognize As Myself, And Myself Isn't Necessarily Just Blankly Staring At The Lens.

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.

Because There's Just So Much In A Day Now, I Keep Writing In Much More Abstract Terms, Like I Don't Try To Write About What Happened Anymore. It Would Be Impossible.

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.