She always knew she was on the verge of invention at the precise moment when originality felt impossible. That instead of surrendering to despair, she would needle in and out and through her brain until an idea surfaced – naked, stripped of predictability and familiarity. By embedding herself into her song, she muted any risk of passing off mimicry as art. Why wasn’t fully committing to creation more desirable than observing what everyone else was doing and doing the same?

Sexist comments, intimidation, groping, violating boundaries, and aggression are merely seen as “typical” for men. But “typical” is dangerously interchangeable with “acceptable”.

The beauty of life is that it ends. If I were mortal and could be granted anything, I assure you, my request would not be for something as dull as longetivity.

Unlike many artists, she had never considered herself a mere vessel for the muse, or a medium, or even a parent. Her songs weren’t her “babies”. Her songs were her.

My friendship with you marks the first time in my adult life when a man not only makes me feel that I can offer what I’ve chosen to offer, but also that it will be welcomed.

I’m also afraid that the most prevalent response these stories will elicit is pity. Even worse, I’m afraid of the necessity of eliciting pity in order to generate concern or galvanize change.

What was it about whiteness that seemed to elicit an infinite spring of faith and second chances?

The saddest part of the night is when I peel my bindi off my forehead and let it fly into the wind a symbolic parting with a piece of myself.

Falling in love with theory was not unlike falling in love with a human.

Falling in love with another human is terrifying. As our language insists, romantic love is always preceded by a fall, the necessity of losing control and potentially hurting yourself in the process of connecting with another.