I didn't waste my time on things I didn't love.

My father was a dreamy fellow - he read Plato and Socrates and watched Phillies games.

If you over-plan, you close the door on possibilities.

I started resenting how much art robs from life. I'd go to a party and I couldn't enjoy myself, even sexually. All I could think was how I was going to reinvent the experience into a piece of art.

We tried not to age, but time had its rage.

There were days, rainy gray days, when the streets of Brooklyn were worthy of a photograph, every window the lens of a Leica, the view grainy and immobile. We gathered our colored pencils and sheets of paper and drew like wild, feral children into the night, until, exhausted, we fell into bed. We lay in each other's arms, still awkward but happy, exchanging breathless kisses into sleep.

I don't wear makeup. I can't stand nothin' on my face. It's a phobia. It's not a platform.