Unless The Sun Inside You Is Burning

It Is Possible To Be Truly Mad And To Still Exist Upon Scraps Of Life.

The Free Soul Is Rare, But You Know It When You See It

I Have No Time For Things That Have No Soul.

I Once Lay In A White Hospital For The Dying And The Dying Self, Where Some God Pissed A Rain Of Reason To Make Things Grow Only To Die, Where On My Knees I Prayed For Light, I Prayed For L*i*g*h*t, And Praying Crawled Like A Blind Slug Into The Web Where Threads Of Wind Stuck Against My Mind And I Died Of Pity For Man, For Myself, On A Cross Without Nails, Watching In Fear As The Pig Belches In His Sty, Farts, Blinks And Eats.

Sometimes There's Luck, When There Is You Stock Up On It And Wait For The Other Times