Everything I Wrote Was True Because I

Always Pull Back-and See How Silly We Must Look To God.

Between Incomprehensible And Incoherent Sits The Madhouse. I Am Not In The Madhouse.

The Bus Roared On. I Was Going Home In October. Everybody Goes Home In October.

And I Will Die, And You Will Die, And We All Will Die, And Even The Stars Will Fade Out One After Another In Time.

I Felt Like Lying Down By The Side Of The Trail And Remembering It All