To love is simply to allow another to be, live, grow, expand, become. An appreciation that demands and expects nothing in return.

You may well ask how I expect to assert my privacy by resorting to the outrageous publicity of being one's actual self on paper. There's a possibility of it working if one chooses the terms, to wit: outshouting image-gimmick America through a quietly desperate search for self.

What is the natural reaction when told you have a hopeless mental illness? That diagnosis does you in; that, and the humiliation of being there. I mean, the indignity you're subjected to. My God.

Monogamy and prostitution go together.

You have to be a little patient if you're an artist. People don't always get you the first time.

It would appear that love is dead. Or very likely in a bad way.

To be a rebel is not to be a revolutionary. It is more often by a way of spinning one's wheels deeper in sand.