And the eye became a body, the murky heart of a rose. The sinister shadow of an orchid. Or the indolent poppy balanced behind the ear of Baudelaire.

Why do we write? A chorus erupts. Because we cannot simply live.

In my way of thinking, anything is possible. Life is at the bottom of things and belief at the top, while the creative impulse, dwelling in the center, informs all.

If I've learned one thing in life, it's not to be so judgmental of other people.

I loved being a rock and roll star, but it wasn't what I wanted in life.