You Can Count How Many Seeds Are

When You Love Someone It Is Forever, Or It Was Never Really Love At All.

To Be Just Without Being Mad (and The Madder You Get The Madder You Get), To Be Peaceful Without Being Stupid, To Be Interested Without Being Compulsive, To Be Happy Without Being Hysterical... Smoke Grass.

Then - As He Was Talking - A Set Of Tail-lights Going Past Lit Up Mcmurphy's Face, And The Windshield Reflected An Expression That Was Allowed Only Because He Figured It'd Be Too Dark For Anybody In The Car To See, Dreadfully Tired And Strained And Frantic, Like There Wasn't Enough Time Left For Something He Had To Do.

A Sound Of Cornered-animal Fear And Hate And Surrender And Defiance . . . Like The Last Sound The Treed And Shot And Falling Animal Makes As The Dogs Get Him, When He Finally Doesn't Care About Anything But Himself And His Dying.

It's Time To Move On To The Next Step In The Psychedelic Revolution. We've Reached A Certain Point, But We're Not Moving Any More.