Rhythm Is Form Cut Into Time.

'tis Not Need We Know Our Every Thought Or See The Work Shop Where Each Mask Is Wrought Wherefrom We View The World Of Box And Pit, Careless Of Wear, Just So The Mask Shall Fit And Serve Our Jape's Turn For A Night Or Two.

A General Loathing Of A Gang Or Sect Usually Has Some Sound Basis In Instinct.

Your Mind And You Are Our Sargasso Sea.

'tis The White Stag, Fame, We're A-hunting, Bid The World's Hounds Come To Horn!

The Eyes Of This Dead Lady Speak To Me For Here Was Love, Was Not To Be Drowned Out. And Here Desire, Not To Be Kissed Away. The Eyes Of This Dead Lady Speak To Me.