We are human and our nature is to air...

When we really see each other, we want to help each other.

In both the art and the business worlds, the difference between the amateurs and the professionals is simple: The professionals know they're winging it. The amateurs pretend they're not.

Collecting the dots. Then connecting them. And then sharing the connections with those around you. This is how a creative human works. Collecting, connecting, sharing.

Asking for help with shame says: You have the power over me. Asking with condescension says: I have the power over you. But asking for help with gratitude says: We have the power to help each other.

I don't think of myself as particularly cursed or blessed. I think I got dealt a set of cards, and I'm playing with them, sometimes in heels, sometimes in combat boots.

When you're afraid of someone's judgment, you can't connect with them. You're too preoccupied with the task of impressing them.

Art is food for the soul, and an artistic climate is a healthy climate because it breeds empathy.

I crave intimacy to the same burning degree that I detest commitment.

I think people have been obsessed with the wrong question, which is how do we make people pay for music? What if we started asking, how do we let people pay for music?

The world needs actual excitement and emotion more than it needs cool people.

Unasked, Unsought, Love gives itself but is not bought

I can't stop shaking. I need you. I want you. I can't let myself have you.

A sensitive person must find a sensitive life partner otherwise a raw life partner would become a puzzle for his/her entire life

Oh, man, " he mumbled with a full mouth. "At least the food is good.

You bloody want me. You can deny it if that helps you sleep better at night, but you're going to end up in my bed sooner or later. Want it or not.

I'm not going to talk too much politics because I'm not smart enough to do that.

God bless the Union; - it is dearer to us for the blood of brave men which has been shed in its defence.

The poet speaks adequately only when he speaks somewhat wildly... not with intellect alone, but with intellect inebriated by nectar.

What am I pondering, you ask? So help me God, immortality.

Life is always walking up to us and saying, "Come on in, the living's fine," and what do we do? Back off and take its picture.