It Is Written In The Book Of

Sometimes A Musical Phrase Would Perfectly Sum Up The Mood Of A Moment. One Of Those Lovelorn Sonatas For Wind Instruments Was Riding Past On A Solemn White Horse. Everybody Wondered Who The New Arrival Was.

But Always And Sometimes Questioning The Old Modes And The New Wondering, The Poem, Growing Up Through The Floor, Standing Tall In Tubers, Invading And Smashing The Ritual Parlor, Demands To Be Met On Its Own Terms Now, Now That The Preliminary Negotiations Are At Last Over.

In The Evening Everything Has A Schedule, If You Can Find Out What It Is.

And So We Turn The Page Over. To Think Of Starting. This Is All There Is.

Somewhere Someone Is Traveling Furiously Toward You, At Incredible Speed, Traveling Day And Night.