That’s an interesting question. The way my process works is that I get the big chunks first: the chorus, stuff like that. Details come later. We all have that feeling when we first get an idea, and as long as it stays in that idea form, the potential is limitless. It’s a great feeling, but wanting to maintain that feeling keeps me procrastinating from filling in those details. I like that idea of limitless potential.

For instance, there were problems I was trying to solve right up until the last night we were tracking at 5am. All but one line of “My Quietest Friend” was written the last day of tracking. I had an idea of what I wanted to do, a few lyrics. But when I went to write it, I was stuck. I told myself, “This is all for you anyway, so just tell me what to do.” And that made me get rid of some lines. There were six lines in the chorus, and that voice in my head told me to get rid of the third line. As soon as I did that, the first line of the chorus, what you hear today, just came out. From that point, my process was to go outside, walk around this triangle block outside the studio—it’s 2am, by the way—lap after lap. I’d think of just one line, then go in and lay it down. Then come back outside.

I really hoped the second verse of “Quietest Friend” would make it on to the record. I wanted that story. It was the story of me hurting a friend really badly by going along with others who were mocking him. But I couldn’t force it on the record if the lyrics were forced.

I liken my process to cooking. There’s a lot of stewing: sometimes things bubble to the top from the bottom, and you think, “Oh, that looks like a potato!” And then you look closer and it’s a carrot. So while I do think the process is about being true to those original feelings, you also have to be willing to deviate from your intent.