I Have Hardly Any Friends Who Aren't

Have You Ever Longed For Someone So Much, So Deeply That You Thought You Would Die? That Your Heart Would Just Stop Beating? I Am Longing Now, But For Whom I Don't Know. My Whole Body Craves To Be Held. I Am Desperate To Love And Be Loved. I Want My Mind To Float Into Another's. I Want To Be Set Free From Despair By The Love I Feel For Another. I Want To Be Physically Part Of Someone Else. I Want To Be Joined. I Want To Be Open And Free To Explore Every Part Of Them, As Though I Were Exploring Myself.

Sometimes I Feel Lonely, But It's Ok

The Idea That I'm Going To Have To Sit Down To Write Some Fiction Where I'm Going To Have To Think Of A Plot Would Really Scare Me, Because It Would Come Out A Mess.

Because Of The Amount Of Press Attention, People Went To See This Dirty Bed, As If It Was A Freak Show. But When They Got There, They Saw Something Else - The Bed, Stuff On The Walls, Whatever. For The Tate, It's The Highest Attendance They Ever Received For The Turner Prize Show. There Was A Massive Queue, And When You Got Into My Bit, You Couldn't Move.

Criticism On My Works Is Like This: You've Worked Hard All Of Your Life, You Went To Oxford, And You've Done This And That, And You're An Art Critic. Your Job Is To Unravel The "secret" Or Whatever, And You Come Across An Entity Like Me. It's Going To Piss You Off. Because There's No Great Secret, What You See Is What You Get, And Anyone Can Understand What I'm Doing. So, It's Almost Like I Make This Critic-person Redundant, Just By My Attitude, And They Resent Me For That.