We All Want What's Been Suddenly Disallowed.

The Body Whips The Soul. In Its Great Desire It Demands The Elixir In The Roar Of Spring, Transmutations.

Of Rhythm Is Image / Of Image Is Knowing / Of Knowing There Is / A Construct

Is It Not The Play Of The Mind We Are After? Is It Not That That Shows A Mind Is There At All?

What Can We Do When Even The Public Conveyances Sing? How Can We Go Anywhere, Even Cross-town How Get Out Of Anywhere

And All Now Is War Where So Lately There Was Peace, And The Sweet Brotherhood, The Use Of Tilled Fields.