If You Think Of Music As A

I'm Goin' Where The Wind Don't Blow So Strange, Maybe Off On Some High Cold Mountain Chain.

I Equate Deadheads To People That Like Black Licorice. There Aren't Many People That Like Black Licorice, But The Ones That Do, Really Really Like It! Or Buttermilk, Or Whatever.

There Is No Dogma, There Isn't Anything About How The Universe Works.

Somebody Has To Do Something, And It's Just Incredibly Pathetic That It Has To Be Us.

The Sun Will Shine In My Back Door One Day.