To Hell With Facts! We Need Stories.

The '60s Aren't Over; They Won't Be Over Until The Fat Lady Gets High.

Turns Me On So Loud It's Like No Sound, Everybody Yelling At Me Hands Over Their Ears From Behind A Glass Wall, Faces Working Around In Talk Circles But No Sound From The Mouths. My Sound Soaks Up All Other Sound.

You Had A Choice: You Could Either Strain And Look At Things That Appeared In Front Of You In The Fog, Painful As It Might Be, Or You Could Relax And Lose Yourself

We Made Love. How Pedestrian The Words Look-trite, Worn, Practically Featureless With Use-but How Can One Better Describe That Which Happens When It Happens? That Creation? That Magic Blending? I Might Say We Became Figures In A Mesmerized Dance Before The Rocking Talisman Of The Moon, Starting Slow, So Slow... A Pair Of Feathers Drifting Through Clear Liquid Substance Of Sky... Gradually Accelerating, Faster And Faster And Finally Into Photon Existence Of Pure Light... As My Whole Straining Body Burst Like Fluid Electricity Into Hers.

The Answer Is Never The Answer. What's Really Interesting Is The Mystery.