You Can't Doubt So Much, Psyche

If Death Is Your Lover, You Don't Got To Be Afraid Ever That He Will Ever Leave You

I Pounded Through The Houses, Staggering Down The Hallways, Falling Down The Steps. It Was A Hot Streaky Dawn Full Of Insecticides, Exhaust, Flowers That Could Make You Sick Or Fall In Love. My Battered Impala Was Still Parked There On The Side Of The Road And I Wanted To Lie Down On The Shredded Seats And Sleep And Sleep. But I Thought Of The Bones; I Could Hear Them Singing. They Needed Me To Write Their Song.

It's Not That I Literally Think I'm A Fearie. It's Just That I Feel So Different From Most People. And This Idea Of A Race Living Underground In Caverns, Spending All Their Days Dancing And Playing The Fiddle And Eating Flowers And Reciting Poetry And Sharing Their Dreams, That To Me Sounds Much More Real Than The Way People Live In This World, Hating And Fighting And Wanting And Hurting.

Wish On Everything. Pink Cars Are Good, Especially Old Ones. And Stars Of Course, First Stars And Shooting Stars. Planes Will Do If They Are The First Light In The Sky And Look Like Stars. Wish In Tunnels, Holding Your Breath And Lifting Your Feet Off The Ground. Birthday Candles. Baby Teeth.

You're Meant To Have Whatever Your Heart Desires. Whatever Your Heart Wants That Much Is Already A Part Of You.