The Best Thing About Being Famous Is

Everybody's Serious But Me.

The Apparition Of An Evil, Sick Unconscious Wild City Rose Before Me In Visible Semblance, And About The Dead Buildings In The Barren Air, The Bodies Of The Soul That Built The Wonderland Shuffled And Stalked And Stalked And Lurched In Attitudes Of Immemorial Nightmare All Around.

Things Are Symbols Of Themselves.

Which Way Will The Sunflower Turn Surrounded By Millions Of Suns?

He Threw Up His Hands And Wrote The Universe Dont Exist And Died To Prove It