Forward My Mail To Mars.

Deftly They Opened The Brain Of A Child, And It Was Full Of Flying Dreams.

The Unconscious Creates, The Ego Edits.

What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire, Desire.

Forward My Mail To Mars.

When They Shall Paint Our Sockets Gray And Light Us Like A Stinking Fuse, Remember That We Once Could Say, Yesterday We Had A World To Lose.