Don't Wait To Be Sure. Move, Move,

He Breathed Out The Bitter Air That Makes Women Doubt Everything, And I Breathed It In, As I Had Always Done. I Expelled My Dust, The Powder Of Everything I Had Destroyed With Doubt, And He Pulled It Into His Lungs.

I Looked Out The Window For Other Passengers In Love With Their Drivers, But We Were Well Disguised, We Pretended Boredom And Prayed For Traffic.

The Job Of The Artist Is To Point At Things.

You've Got The People You Know, Which Are Problematic. Always. They're Rich But They're Also Real People Living Their Lives Alongside You. Then You've Got The People That You Make-up Completely, Who Are Often Missing A Dimension If They Don't Have Some Reference To Real People. So Strangers Exist In This In-between Space, Where In Not Knowing Them, You Are Creating A Fiction For Them, Even In Passing, But At The Same Time, There They Are, With Their Actual Bodies And Their Actual Clothes. It's Totally Enticing.

There's All Different Kinds Of People, But I Don't Think It's That Unusual That Once You Get Like A Little Power, You Get To Do Your Weird Thing Even More.