I like being at home with my music and my books. I’ve done all the partying, I’ve done enough partying for four or five people as a young fella. But now I like the quiet life.
There's a store in my neighborhood called Futon World. I like that name, 'Futon World.' Makes me think of a magical place that gets less and less comfortable over time.
I have a Manhattan club chair in dark espresso leather that I always read in. It's a place where I can contemplate other people's thoughts and stir my imagination.
We no longer build fireplaces for physical warmth—we build them for the warmth of the soul; we build them to dream by, to hope by, to home by.
Once I'm already in my room, I still have to open a door to get into my bed. It's like a giant box. It's like the boy in a bubble.
My bed is my weird little haven. It's like a deflated tent.
So burrow in. Snuggle deep. A winter idyll of simple splendor awaits.
My box bedroom can only fit a bed and a wardrobe but it was my whole world. My only personal space to think and dream, to cry and laugh and wait until I became old enough to do all the things I wasn't allowed to do.
My house is my refuge, an emotional piece of architecture, not a cold piece of convenience.
I wanted a garret hideaway to write in like Jo March in 'Little Women.'
The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day with covers pulled up to my chin. It was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there, no people, nothing.
I love home. I'll stay up there for days on end, I won't even go down the driveway to look for the mail.
I used to beg my mom to let me put a real bed out in forest so I could lie there and listen to the sounds of the forest while still having all the comforts of home.
