Murphy's Law, That Brash Proletarian Restatement Of

Let The Peace Of This Day Be Here Tomorrow When I Wake Up.

You Go From Dream To Dream Inside Me. You Have Passage To My Last Shabby Corner, And There, Among The Debris, You’ve Found Life. I’m No Longer Sure Which Of All The Words, Images, Dreams Or Ghosts Are ‘yours’ And Which Are ‘mine.’ It’s Past Sorting Out.

Through The Machineries Of Greed, Pettiness, And The Abuse Of Power, Love Occurs.

I Mean What They And Their Hired Psychiatrists Call Delusional Systems. Needless To Say, ‘delusions’ Are Always Officially Defined. We Do Not Have To Worry About Questions Of Real Or Unreal. They Only Talk Out Of Expediency. It’s The System That Matters. How The Data Arrange Themselves Inside It. Some Are Consistent, Others Fall Apart.

All The Animals, The Plants, The Minerals, Even Other Kinds Of Men, Are Being Broken And Reassembled Every Day, To Preserve An Elite Few, Who Are The Loudest To Theorize On Freedom, But The Least Free Of All.