Desolation, Desolation, I Owe So Much To

Suppose We Suddenly Wake Up And See That What We Thought To Be This And That, Ain't This And That At All?

All He Needed Was A Wheel In His Hand And Four On The Road.

The Only People For Me Are The Mad Ones, The Ones Who Are Mad To Live, Mad To Talk, Mad To Be Saved, Desirous Of Everything At The Same Time, The Ones Who Never Yawn Or Say A Commonplace Thing, But Burn, Burn, Burn Like Fabulous Yellow Roman Candles Exploding Like Spiders Across The Stars.

You Can't Fight City Hall. It Keeps Changing Its Name.

Man, Wow, There's So Many Things To Do, So Many Things To Write! How To Even Begin To Get It All Down And Without Modified Restraints And All Hung-up On Like Literary Inhibitions And Grammatical Fears.