Bee, Why Are You Staring At Me?

I'm Catholic And I Can't Commit Suicide, But I Plan To Drink Myself To Death.

It Seemed Like A Matter Of Minutes When We Began Rolling In The Foothills Before Oakland And Suddenly Reached A Height And Saw Stretched Out Ahead Of Us The Fabulous White City Of San Francisco On Her Eleven Mystic Hills With The Blue Pacific And Its Advancing Wall Of Potato-patch Fog Beyond, And Smoke And Goldenness In The Late Afternoon Of Time.

Go Moan For Man. It's The Pathos Of People That Gets Us Down, All The Lovers In This Dream.

I Am Always Thinking 'what Am I Doing Here? Is This The Way I Am Supposed To Feel?'

I See As Much As Doors'll Allow, Open Or Shut.