What Sort Of An Age Is This

The Reality Is In This Head. Mine. I'm The Projector At The Planetarium, All The Closed Little Universe Visible In The Circle Of That Stage Is Coming Out Of My Mouth, Eyes, And Sometimes Other Orifices Also.

What Goes Around May Come Around, But It Never Ends Up Exactly The Same Place, You Ever Notice? Like A Record On A Turntable, All It Takes Is One Groove's Difference And The Universe Can Be On Into A Whole 'nother Song.

You Go From Dream To Dream Inside Me. You Have Passage To My Last Shabby Corner, And There, Among The Debris, You’ve Found Life. I’m No Longer Sure Which Of All The Words, Images, Dreams Or Ghosts Are ‘yours’ And Which Are ‘mine.’ It’s Past Sorting Out.

He Decided That We Suffer From Great Temporal Homesickness For The Decade We Were Born In.

If Patterns Of Ones And Zeros Were 'like' Patterns Of Human Lives And Death, If Everything About An Individual Could Be Represented In A Computer Record By A Long String Of Ones And Zeros, Then What Kind Of Creature Would Be Represented By A Long String Of Lives And Deaths?