I see a boy with his mother's ambition, performing for love, trained in submission.

Backstage, I get sleepy, and want to curl up and snooze. I never get nervous, whatever the event. I feel quite detached until I walk on stage, and then some gear inside me clicks and off I go like a wind up doll.

It's an ordinary day for Brian. Like, he died every day, you know.

Once she woke with untamed lover's face between her legs, now he's cooled and stifled and it's she who has to beg.

Give blood, but you may find that blood is not enough.

All good art cannot help but confront denial on its way to truth.

Punk rock was the tsunami that threatened to drown us all in 1977.