Ms. It sounds like a sick bumblebee, it sounds frigid. I mean, who the hell would ever want to stick his hand up the dress of somebody who goes around calling herself something like Ms.? It's all so stupid.
A good artist's always got his hand in his zipper.
I refuse to believe that Hendrix had the last possessed hand, that Joplin had the last drunken throat, that Morrison had the last enlightened mind.
The hand above turns those leaves of loves, all in all a timeless view. Each dream of life flung from paradise everlasting, ever new.
For I desired, as Youth does, to be taken by the hand and hurled into the world.
Sometimes I just wanted to raise my hands and stop. But stop what? Maybe just growing up.
People came at me with all sorts of offers, wanting to make me into a hard-core Cher. I had no desire for any amount of money to be reformed for someone's vision, because in the end, that's what you got: your clay in someone else's hands.
Those who have suffered understand suffering and therefore extend their hand.
Hopefully if you create something fine, people will relate to it, so you're communicating with people, and you're not in a void. On the other hand, because you're always creating and transforming, art always separates you - always.