When I was nineteen, pureness was the great issue. Instead of the world being divided up into Catholics and Protestants or Republicans and Democrats or white men and black men or even men and women, I saw the world divided into people who had slept with somebody and people who hadn’t, and this seemed the only really significant difference between one person and another.

I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas.

Let's face it: I'm scared, scared and frozen. First, I guess, I'm afraid for myself...the old primitive urge for survival. It's getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity.

If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.

There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart - It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge, For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

Then I thought, "No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.

Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?