The real lost souls don’t wear their hair long and play guitars. They have crew cuts and trained minds, sign on for research in biological warfare, and don’t give their parents a moment’s worry.

I have limited interests. I really like all sorts of gear. Guitar gear. Recording gear. Stuff like that. I like music, you know.

Little remnants from everywhere I’ve been are scattered around my home. I collect rocks in a weird way, with stones from around the world as mementos. I’ve also got three haranas, which are little guitars.

Hip-hop and country aren’t too far different: They got shiny suits and the boots and the guitars with their names on it. I was infatuated with that type of stuff.

I see what I want of Love… I see horses making the meadow dance, fifty guitars sighing, and a swarm of bees suckling the wild berries, and I close my eyes until I see our shadow behind this dispossessed place… I see what I want of people: their desire to long for anything, their lateness in getting to work and their hurry to return to their folk… and their need to say: Good Morning.