I’ve been fifty years memorizing how the lines beneath your eyes form rivers when you cry and I’ve held my hand like an ocean at your cheek saying, “Baby, flow to me.” ‘Cause fifty years I’ve watched you grow with me – fifty years of you never letting go of me, through nightmares and dreams and everything in between.

My mother said to me, “If you are a soldier, you will become a general. If you are a monk, you will become the Pope.” Instead, I was a painter, and became Picasso.