In The American Soul There Is A

Everything I've Stated May Prove To Be Total Poppycock.... Perhaps Time Will Tell. Perhaps Time Will Do Nothing Of The Kind.

He Speaks In Your Voice, American, And There's A Shine In His Eye That's Halfway Hopeful.

People Hurried Past, The Others Of The Street, Endless Anonymous, Twenty-one Lives Per Second, Race-walking In Their Faces And Pigments, Sprays Of Fleetest Being.

The Genius Of Rock Music Is That It Matched The Cultural Hysteria Around It.

Facts Are Lonely Things.