Nothing Can Save You Except Writing. It

There's No Chance At All: We Are All Trapped By A Singular Fate.

The World Is Full Of Boring, Identical And Mindless People.

I Am With The Roots Of Flowers Entwined, Entombed Sending Up My Passionate Blossoms As A Flight Of Rockets And Argument; Wine Churls My Throat, Above Me Feet Walk Upon My Brain, Monkies Fall From The Sky Clutching Photographs Of The Planets, But I Seek Only Music And The Leisure Of My Pain

I Am Going To Start Selling Air In Dark Orange Bags Marked: Moon-blooms

You've Got To Rise From The Floor Alone Or Fall Back Alone.