There isn't a difference between how I feel in the world and how I feel as a musician, or someone who writes. They are one in the same. It's just a different presentation.

I don't want to interact with people but I do get lonely.

I like walking around and listening to music. When my steps coincide with a beat, in my head I feel in unison with the world that I'm living in.

I'm honestly flattered and humbled that anyone would show interest in something I've done, forever.

I love music, but more for the context within the music than a certain sound.

Sometimes leaving is the only way to be there for someone.

I've felt love from certain songs that I've wanted to experience from other people - where I know that love may never happen - and I want to give that to someone else.

I feel there is love and confidence in me somewhere and I want to find it. So far, music is the only medium that's allowed me to flirt with a sense of self-worth, with joy and comfort.

I don't know why people would be interested in what I do. Maybe they feel how I feel. Maybe it's because we're all missing something, and I just happen to wear that on my sleeve.

You can't expect drive and compassion from everyone who enters your life, but you have to demand it of the people you are creating with.

I don't know why I've spent over half of My life talking about dying

But now it was spring again, and spring was almost unbearable for sensitive hearts. It drove creation to its utmost limits, it wafted its spice-laden breath even into the nostrils of the innocent.

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

Brain: an apparatus with which we think that we think. Mind, n. A mysterious form of matter secreted by the brain.

Don't let them tell you ain't beautiful

I think so much of art is unconscious anyway, the artist doesn't know the real reason they're doing it. They're just kind of going along with it intuitively.

Neither nature, experience, nor probability informs these lists of 'entitlements', which are subject to no constraints except those of the mind and appetite of their authors.

He did not know that the child who had asked for yesterday was now seeking to own tomorrow.

You really can't turn on TLC without seeing us.

Everything constantly changes.

We have a limit, a very discouraging, humiliating limit: death.