I Am A Restless Soul Hungry Perhaps

Take Me Disappearing, Through The Smoke Rings Of My Mind, Down The Foggy Ruins Of Time.

If You're Not Busy Being Born, You're Busy Dying.

It's East To See Without Lookin' Too Far That Not Much Is Really Sacred.

Never Make It Perfect.

As He Weeps To Wicked Birds Of Prey, Who Pick Up On His Bread Crumb Sins, And There Are No Sins Inside The Gates Of Eden.