I Read, Much Of The Night, And

I Gotta Use Words To Talk To You.

I've Been Born, And Once Is Enough.

Can We Only Love Something Created In Our Own Imaginations? Are We All In Fact Unloving And Unloveable? Then One Is Alone, And If One Is Alone Then Lover And Beloved Are Equally Unreal And The Dreamer Is No More Real Than His Dreams.

In The Mountains, There You Feel Free.

Thinking Of The Key, Each Confirms A Prison.