‘All kids draw and write poetry and everything, and some of us last until we’re about 18, but most drop off at about 12 when some guy comes up and says, ‘You’re no good.’ If somebody had told me ‘yeah, you’re a great artist,’ I would have been a more secure person.’
Emily, cloistered in her room,
Shed more light than the loudest band:
Come, Lord, bring a clean broom,
Sweep your Spirit across our land.