Make Me, Oh God, The Prey Of

We Are All Like The Bright Moon, We Still Have Our Darker Side.

For To Be Idle Is To Become A Stranger Unto The Seasons, And To Step Out Of Life’s Procession That Marches In Majesty And Proud Submission Towards The Infinite.

Your Clothes Conceal Much Of Your Beauty, Yet They Hide Not The Unbeautiful.

You Talk When You Cease To Be At Peace With Your Thoughts; And When You Can No Longer Dwell In The Solitude Of Your Heart You Live In Your Lips, And Sound Is A Diversion And A Pastime. And In Much Of Your Talking, Thinking Is Half Murdered.

For The First Time The Sun Kissed My Own Naked Face And My Soul Was Inflamed With Love For The Sun, And I Wanted My Masks No More. And As If In A Trance I Cried, "blessed, Blessed Are The Thieves Who Stole My Masks." Thus I Became A Madman.