Anywhere but the M25, rushing around in circles going nowhere with no one.

I guess I would wake up, have breakfast with my children. Then I’d go to the studio and make the best record of my life, and then have a lot of sex! That sounds pretty balanced, I think!

This is so heavy. If I’m never going to see my kids and husband again, it’s to let them know how giantly, massively and crazily I love them. Every ounce of me loves them so deeply, it makes me cry.

I think that dying might bring about a profound loneliness. I don’t feel lonely in life, but I do think this would be a very hard discovery at the end. Assuming there might be a time of consciousness, I think that serious medication might be a help. Not to put me out, but to smooth things over. The last time I had surgery, the anesthesiologist visited me in Recovery and gave me a sheet of paper on which was listed all of the drugs he had administered. I was glad to get it after the surgery, since I went down the list thinking, That’s what killed Michael Jackson, that’s what killed Prince. I don’t take recreational drugs, never did, but I would like to have the option of taking the edge off of fear. People I love at my bedside—I don’t see that being a comfort, but a reminder of who I’ll be losing. Music might be welcome. I could imagine wanting to hear Jorma Kaukonen sing “Genesis.”

Not getting proper dance lessons as a young person. I was a serious flamer.