The words went round and round and round in my mind and my body, until I knew they were no longer my words but something that had been carved into my heart. And now my soul was crying.

What is truth? Truth doesn't really exist. Who is going to judge whether my experience of an incident is more valid than yours? No one can be trusted to be the judge of that.

I've been slagged off completely by the art world and I don't know whether fancy being slagged off by the literary world as well. It's just too much.

When I think about sex it makes me realise how alone I feel.

I feel physically ill if I don't make work, I don't create. I don't feel very good. I don't feel right, I feel wrong.

When it comes to words I have a uniqueness that I find almost impossible in art – and it's my words that actually make my art quite unique.

Maybe I don't believe things myself, as well. Truth is such a transient thing...