Don't start me talking, I could talk all night. My mind goes sleepwalking while I'm putting the world right.
I'm a bit of an insomniac. I'm always thinking. I've got a lot of ideas for lyrics and shows. I have a notepad by the side of the bed and voice recorders around the house.
I have a little dictaphone and if a sound takes my fancy or if a lyric comes to me in the middle of the night I'll just record it there and then.
I write in the mornings, in the bright daylight. But I get most of my good ideas after the sun has gone down and the dark is on the land.
At night, when the objective world has slunk back into its cavern and left dreamers to their own, there come inspirations and capabilities impossible at any less magical and quiet hour. No one knows whether or not he is a writer unless he has tried writing at night.
At night I can write for hours.
When I write after dark the shades of evening scatter their purple through my prose.
So dear night the half of life is, And the fairest half indeed.
You’re not going to drive me home?” I asked. A waste of breath, since I knew her answer. “There’s fog.” “Patchy fog.” Vee grinned. “Oh, boy. He is so on your mind. Not that I blame you. Personally, I’m hoping I dream about him tonight.
It is normal for me to wake and find myself writing in the dark... or to be out of my tomb, caught in an unearthly world, alive with the images that haunt me.
