Who Am I To Blow Against The

A Man Walks Down The Street. It's A Street In A Strange World. Maybe It's The Third World. Maybe It's His First Time Around. He Doesn't Speak The Language. He Holds No Currency. He Is A Foreign Man. He Is Surrounded By The Sound, Sound Of Cattle In The Marketplace, Scatterlings And Orphanages. He Looks Around, Around He Sees Angels In The Architecture Spinning In Infinity And He Says, "amen" And "hallelujah!

By The Time I Was 12 Or 13, I Felt That I Was Special, Because I Could Play The Guitar And Write Songs.

There Is A Moment, A Chip In Time, When Leaving Home Is The Lesser Crime.

Faith Is An Island In The Setting Sun, But Proof Is The Bottom Line For Everyone.

The Trick Is, As I Know It, Is To Care Like Hell And Not Give A Damn At The Same Time.