We're all ants. I'm a glittery little ant.

Europe seems a little softer, but in America it's harsh. In L.A., where I live, it's all about perfectionism.

For four to six months at a time, I would barely eat. I lived on a diet of Melba toast, carrots, and black coffee.

We'll love you just the way you are if you're perfect.

I notice that when I feel the most disconnected, once I'm done blaming the moon and everything else, I can see that I am so mired in identification with form and ego and story and identity, and that if I want to, I can read some scripture or read some spiritual book or pray or meditate or sit in the sun or hang around the birds and the dogs, and get a real objective sense of what's really going on here. That usually softens things.

I firmly believe that the only reason why I'm on this planet, the only reason why I live, breathe, and exist is, that it's my duty to be as honest as possible in my art.

You live, you learn, you love, you learn, you cry, you learn, you lose, you learn, you bleed, you learn, you scream, you learn