Habit Is The Ballast That Chains The

There's Man All Over For You, Blaming On His Boots The Fault Of His Feet.

The Blind Have No Notion Of Time. The Things Of Time Are Hidden From Them Too.

In My Head There Are Several Windows, That I Do Know, But Perhaps It Is Always The Same One, Open Variously On The Parading Universe.

They Give Birth Astride Of A Grave, The Light Gleams An Instant, Then It's Night Once More.

What Do I Know Of Man's Destiny? I Could Tell You More About Radishes.