I spent eight weeks trying to write an album in Atlanta. The night before, I was dreaming of a teenager. This dream was not sexual. He sat on the couch and apologized. When asked why she apologized, she underlined her knee and then her knee. She made some movements with her finger.

She said she did not understand and shook her head. She said it was her fault. When he met us, he said he thought I was a witch. He said he thought he knew what we were doing when we did. When he said that, I vaguely remembered my genital senses and genitals from my first dream. Lift up, shy, I said right, I'm not a witch. Pull the lower lip.

It was like all the first albums were there. Then I recorded. The idea in my head after that was just boring echo. The sound of my song is over and my heart is empty. Therefore, nothing is saved and nothing is saved.