What other people think of me is none of my business. Sometimes, it hurts my feelings, but I have to just keep going.

A lot of what's been written about me is not true: of my family history or my choices or my interests. Actually, I've never read anything written about me that was true. It's been completely crazy.

New York's architecture alone is enough to inspire a whole album. In fact, that's what happened at first - my early stuff was mostly just interpretations of landscapes.

I lost my reputation, I forgot my truth. But I have my beauty and I have my youth.

Who belonged to no one, who belonged to everyone. Who had nothing, who wanted everything.

Walking through the city streets... Is it by mistake or design?

Mary prays the rosary for my broken mind.