I Like To Move Around. I Travel.

Augustine, Anne Sexton And Sylvia Plath Are Confessional Writers And All Three Make Me Sick. I Have Nothing In Common With Them.

You Have This Mounting Aggressive Ignorance With The Rabbit's Foot Of Their Particular Religion. You Don't Really Have Any Kind Of Spiritual Law, Just A Kind Of A Rabid Mental Illness. The Songs Are A Little Slice Of Life.

Nobody Understood The Reoccurring Dream, But After September 11, When We Were Coerced To Do A National Duty And Go Out And Shop, Surely People Could Begin To See What I Was Getting At.

Heaven's Full Of Astronauts And The Lord's On Death Row.

Sunlight Will Renew Your Pride.