All The Gods Are Dead Except The

And Why Does It Make You Sad To See How Everything Hangs By Such Thin And Whimsical Threads? Because You’re A Dreamer, An Incredible Dreamer, With A Tiny Spark Hidden Somewhere Inside You Which Cannot Die, Which Even You Cannot Kill Or Quench And Which Tortures You Horribly Because All The Odds Are Against Its Continual Burning. In The Midst Of The Foulest Decay And Putrid Savagery, This Spark Speaks To You Of Beauty, Of Human Warmth And Kindness, Of Goodness, Of Greatness, Of Heroism, Of Martyrdom, And It Speaks To You Of Love.

The Racist Conscience Of America Is Such That Murder Does Not Register As Murder Really, Unless The Victim Is White... Blacks Knew That White Blood Is The Coin Of Freedom In A Land Where For Four Hundred Years Black Blood Has Been Shed Unremarked And With Impunity.

The Object Is For Everyone To Do Their Own Thing, But The Thing Is To Make One's Thing The Revolution.

I Have Lived Those Lines And I Know That If I Had Not Been Apprehended I Would Have Slit Some White Throats.

I Know That Sometimes People Fake On Each Other Out Of Genuine Motives To Hold Onto The Object Of Their Tenderest Feelings. They See Themselves As So Inadequate That They Feel Forced To Wear A Mask In Order To Continuously Impress The Other. I Do Not Want To "hold" You, I Want You To "stay" Out Of Your Own Need For Me.