I Sing The Joy Of Wandering And

Come To The Edge.' 'we Can't. We're Afraid.' 'come To The Edge.' 'we Can't. We Will Fall!' 'come To The Edge.' And They Came. And He Pushed Them. And They Flew.

Without Artists, The Sublime Idea Men Have Of The Universe Would Collapse With Dizzying Speed.

It's Raining My Soul, It's Raining, But It's Raining Dead Eyes.

One Can't Carry One's Father's Corpse About Everywhere.

I Sing The Joy Of Wandering And The Pleasure Of The Wanderer's Death