Forward My Mail To Mars.

We Have All Been Expelled From The Garden, But The Ones Who Suffer Most In Exile Are Those Who Are Still Permitted To Dream Of Perfection.

The Unconscious Creates, The Ego Edits.

It Is My Heart That's Late, It Is My Song That's Flown.

A Longing For The Dance Stirs In The Buried Life.

I Can Hardly Wait For Tomorrow, It Means A New Life For Me Each And Every Day.