You Just Have To Trust Your Own

I Haven't Even Had A Life I Could Call My Own, And You're Ready To Slot Me Into The Grand Design. Well, I Don't Think I Want To Go. I Want To Be My Own Design.

Spring, If It Lingers More Than A Week Beyond Its Span, Starts To Hunger For Summer To End The Days Of Perpetual Promise. Summer In Its Turn Soon Begins To Sweat For Something To Quench Its Heat, And The Mellowest Of Autumns Will Tire Of Gentility At Last, And Ache For A Quick Sharp Frost To Kill Its Fruitfulness. Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

Let The Mad Find Wisdom In Their Madness For The Sane, And Let The Sane Be Grateful.

After All, Where Can The Glorious, The Goofy, And The God-like Stand Shoulder To Shoulder?

The Monsters Act Out Our Rage. They Act On Their Worst Impulses, Which Is Appealing To A Certain Part Of Us. They Get Punished For It, But We've Enjoyed The Spectacle Of Their Liberation.