And Don't You Know That God Is

It Was A Rainy Night. It Was The Myth Of The Rainy Night.

Never Mistake Talking About Writing For Actual Writing.

It Was The Work Of The Quiet Mountains, This Torrent Of Purity At My Feet.

So Therefore I Dedicate Myself, To My Art, My Sleep, My Dreams, My Labors, My Suffrances, My Loneliness, My Unique Madness, My Endless Absorption And Hunger Because I Cannot Dedicate Myself To Any Fellow Being.

We Fumed And Screamed In Our Mountain Nook, Mad Drunken Americans In The Mighty Land. We Were On The Roof Of America And All We Could Do Was Yell, I Guess - Across The Night.