My sexual nature is irrelevant. I'm an actor, I play roles, fragments of myself.

I'm a born librarian with a sex drive.

I'm a phallus in pigtails, and there's blood on my nose, and my tissue is rotting where the rats chew my bones. And my eye sockets empty, see nothing but pain, I keep having this brainstorm about twelve times a day.

All art is unstable. Its meaning is not necessarily that implied by the author. There is no authoritative voice. There are only multiple readings.

If it works, it's out of date.

Critics I don't understand. They get too intellectual. They're not very well-versed in street talk; it takes them longer to say it. So they have to do it in dictionaries and they take longer to say it.

As you get older, the questions come down to about two or three. How long? And what do I do with the time I've got left?