It Ain't Whatcha Write, It's The Way

Holy Flowers Floating In The Air, Were All These Tired Faces In The Dawn Of Jazz America.

The One Thing That We Yearn For In Our Living Days, That Makes Us Sigh And Groan And Undergo Sweet Nauseas Of All Kinds, Is The Remembrance Of Some Lost Bliss That Was Probably Experienced In The Womb And Can Only Be Reproduced (though We Hate To Admit It) In Death. But Who Wants To Die?

Equally Empty, Equally To Be Loved, Equally A Coming Buddha

The Silence Was An Intense Roar.

One Man Practicing Kindness In The Wilderness Is Worth All The Temples This World Pulls.