One of the reasons that art is important to me is sometimes it actually feels more coherent than life. It orders the chaos.

Can you see me? All of me? Probably not. No one ever really has.

They're just memories now. Time to write them off.

Household objects lost meaning. A bedside clock became a hunk of molded plastic, telling something called time, in a world marking it's passage for some reason.

Pregnancy humbles husbands. After an initial rush of male pride they quickly recognise the minor role that nature had assigned them in the drama of reproduction.

She may have looked normal on the outside, but once you'd seen her handwriting you knew she was deliciously complicated inside.

You don't understand me. I'm a teenager. I've got problems!