Don't Believe Everything You Hear Today

Her Sanity Was A Fragile Thing, A Butterfly Cupped In Her Hands, That She Carried With Her Everywhere, Afraid Of What Would Happen If She Let It Go-or Got Careless And Crushed It.

All The World Is Made Of Music. We Are All Strings On A Lyre. We Resonate. We Sing Together.

Fantasy Was Always Only A Reality Waiting To Be Switched On.

That Was One Thing You Found Out When You Were Stoned, Or Wasted, Or Feverish: That The World Was Always Turning And That Only A Healthy Mind Could Block Out The Sickening Whirl Of It.

I Am; I Was. I Want To Be.