The only way I can lose my mind in bed is to destroy myself in a fantasy.

My father came a couple of times, but he always blamed his hearing loss on my loud amplifiers. So he didn't come anymore, but I had his support.

What a model of an artist was for me was an artist who worked. Picasso was the ultimate model, because the work ethic he had.

I wanted to remember the original energy; strip away all the glamour and limousines and tons of drugs. I wanted to get back to the revolutionary ideas, merging poetry and rhythm and rock and roll.

It was no hardship to me to spend long hours reading and writing.

I reflected on the fact that no matter how good I aspired to be, I was never going to achieve perfection

What is the soul? What color is it? I suspected my soul, being mischievous, might slip away while I was dreaming and fail to return. I did my best not to fall asleep, to keep it inside of me where it belonged.