Truth Is Dissent, Where All Power Resides

Breathe When You Breathe. Walk Where You Walk. Talk When You Talk. Cry When You Cry. Die When You Die. Let Go When You Let Go.

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.

That's What The Shaman Said. He Didn't Know What He Was Up Against. He Didn't Expect The Strength And Weight And Evil Intensity Of This Spirit, This "entity," As He Called It. The Same Way The Priest In An Exorcism Has To Take On The Spirit.

I Have A New Method Of Poetry. All You Got To Do Is Look Over Your Notebooks... Or Lay Down On A Couch, And Think Of Anything That Comes Into Your Head, Especially The Miseries. Then Arrange In Lines Of Two, Three Or Four Words Each, Don't Bother About Sentences, In Sections Of Two, Three Or Four Lines Each.

The Soul Is Innocent And Immortal, It Should Never Die Ungodly In An Armed Madhouse.