You Lose Your Grip, And Then You

And May My Bronze Name / Touch Always Her Thousand Fingers / Grow Brighter With Her Weeping / Until I Am Fixed Like A Galaxy / And Memorized / In Her Secret And Fragile Skies.

I Don't Have A Television Set Up [in The Mountains], Of Course, But I Find I Don't Miss It At All, Or The Newspaper. I've Sneaked A Radio Into By Cabin, But I Find I Turn It On Very Rarely.

It's Hard To Hold The Hand Of Anyone Who Is Reaching For The Sky Just To Surrender

All The Lousy Little Poets Coming Around Trying To Sound Like Charles Manson.

What A Beautiful Testament To The Creative Spirit And Its True Motives, To Creative Contribution Coming From A Place Of Purpose Rather Than A Hunger For Profit.