A lot of people use a smiley face when they write letters. But it's this huge insane compulsion, like "I'm happy! I swear!" I'm not buying it. I don't believe them.

I feel like the biggest failure of humans is miscommunication. We can't communicate with each other-we can fight, we can kill, we can do those things well.

I'm really interested in the difference between selfishness and generosity. It confuses me to no end because sometimes it all just feels like pure indulgence on my part.

The night schedule is a crazy pit I fall into most of the time, but I do like it because the buzz of normal professionalism has gone away. Even though you're working, you feel like you're playing.

A lot of the images I use are already out there in the public or in the news. I just steal them or photograph them or repaint them, so they've already been talked about, already been consumed.

Language is the most beautiful and destructive thing because it allows you to express yourself, but it totally confuses everything.

There are so many different desires that make you execute an artwork.

It's nice that I can go down the road of obsessing over this smiley-face bullshit so maybe I can get free from it and think about something else-it's so banal and yet so crazy!

I love language, and I love the failure of language.

The spaces between stars are where the work of the universe is done.

The worst kind of poison for despots: truth.

Aptitude without Attitude is Blind

There are those who believe Black people possess the secret of joy and that it is this that will sustain them through any spiritual or moral or physical devastation.

The only consent hinge in life is that everyhin is changing. And that's a little scary, but it means that hints can't be bad or hard forever.

I always say, keep the oil. I said don't go in, but I said keep the oil.

No man would listen to you talk if he didn't know it was his turn next.

There is a fine line between passion and gas.

Rules of society are nothing; one's conscience is the umpire.

My Muse sits forlorn She wishes she had not been born She sits in the cold No word she says is ever told.