I waited for the end of the world for seven weeks, so really this is nothing I haven’t seen or heard or felt before. You’ve got to open the door a little further to scare the living hell out of me. I woke up in a landscape shaped like a gun pointed at my head and it wants me dead — or maybe it’s indifferent. You don’t live rent-free in my head. Tell me, why would I give you my heart? That would be tantamount to a crime, or maybe some kind of high art. You don’t live, you don’t live — you call that living?