All Who Love Have Lied.

Poor Thing. To Die And Never See Brooklyn.

I’m Lost. And It’s My Own Fault. It’s About Time I Figured Out That I Can’t Ask People To Keep Me Found.

The Future Is A Fog That Is Still Hanging Out Over The Sea, A Boat That Floats Home Or Does Not. The Trade Winds Blow Me, And I Do Not Know Where The Land Is; The Waves Fold Over Each Other; They Are In Love With Themselves; Sleeping In Their Own Skin; And I Float Over Them And I Do Not Know About Tomorrow.

Let The Light Be Called Day So That Men May Grow Corn Or Take Busses.

Let There Be A Heaven So That Man May Outlive His Grasses.