This World… Belongs To The Strong, My

High High In The Hills , High In A Pine Tree Bed. She's Tracing The Wind With That Old Hand, Counting The Clouds With That Old Chant, Three Geese In A Flock One Flew East One Flew West One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest

You Seem To Forget, Miss Flinn, That This Is An Institution For The Insane.

The Grateful Dead Are Faster Than Light Drive.

Good Writin' Ain't Necessarily Good Readin'.

We'd Just Shared The Last Beer And Slung The Empty Can Out The Window At A Stop Sign And Were Just Waiting Back To Get The Feel Of The Day, Swimming In That Kind Of Tasty Drowsiness That Comes Over You After A Day Of Going Hard At Something You Enjoy Doing -- Half Sunburned And Half Drunk And Keeping Awake Only Because You Wanted To Savor The Taste As Long As You Could.