All The World Is Made Of Music.

It Was Something... The Way A Person's Life Picked Up Speed, The Way A Life Was Like A Bullet Aimed At One Final Target, Impossible To Slow Or Turn Aside, And Like The Bullet, You Were Ignorant Of What You Were Going To Hit, Would Never Know Anything Except The Rush And The Impact.

Longhaired Preachers Come Out Every Night, Tryin' To Tell Us What's Wrong And What's Right. But When Asked About Something To Eat, They Will Tell You In Voices So Sweet. You Will Eat (you Will Eat!) By And By, (by And By!) In That Glorious Land In The Sky. (way Up High!) Work And Pray, Live On Hay, You'll Get Pie In The Sky When You Die. (that's A Lie!)

Terror Is The Desire To Save Your Own Ass, But Horror Is Rooted In Sympathy.

The Soul May Not Be Destroyed. The Soul Goes On Forever. Like The Number Pi, It Is Without Cessation Or Conclusion. Like Pi It Is A Constant. Pi Is An Irrational Number, Incapable Of Being Made Into A Fraction, Impossible To Divide From Itself. So, Too, The Soul Is An Irrational, Indivisible Equation That Perfectly Expresses One Thing: You.

If The Workers Took A Notion They Could Stop All Speeding Trains; Every Ship Upon The Ocean They Can Tie With Mighty Chains.