Give Form To The Passing World. Freeways

Where's Your Will To Be Weird?

I Am Troubled, Immeasurably By Your Eyes. I Am Struck By The Feather Of Your Soft Reply. The Sound Of Glass Speaks Quick, Disdain And Conceals What Your Eyes Fight To Explain.

I Offer Images-i Conjure Memories Of Freedom That Can Still Be Reached-like The Doors, Right? But We Can Only Open The Doors-we Can't Drag People Through.

I've Noticed That When People Are Joking They're Usually Dead Serious, And When They're Serious, They're Usually Pretty Funny.

Death Makes Angels Of Us All.