Idle Dreaming Is Often Of The Essence

Not Me, Paranoia's The Garlic In Life's Kitchen, Right, You Can Never Have Too Much.

The Saint Whose Water Can Light Lamps, The Clairvoyant Whose Lapse In Recall Is The Breath Of God, The True Paranoid For Whom All Is Organized In Spheres Joyful Or Threatening About The Central Pulse Of Himself, The Dreamer Whose Puns Probe Ancient Fetid Shafts And Tunnels Of Truth All Act In The Same Special Relevance To The Word, Or Whatever It Is The Word Is There, Buffering, To Protect Us From. The Act Of Metaphor Than Was A Thrust At Truth And A Lie, Depending Where You Were: Inside, Safe Or Outside, Lost.

Shall I Project A World?

Let The Peace Of This Day Be Here Tomorrow When I Wake Up.

He Decided That We Suffer From Great Temporal Homesickness For The Decade We Were Born In.