[...] My Wild Words Slip Into Fusion

Where's Your Will To Be Weird?

Each Generation Wants New Symbols, New People, New Names. They Want To Divorce Themselves From Their Predecessors.

Where Are The Feasts We Were Promised? Where Is The Wine, The New Wine, Dying On The Vine.

I'll Never Wake Up In A Good Mood Again. I'm Tired Of These Stinky Boots

I Am Troubled, Immeasurably By Your Eyes. I Am Struck By The Feather Of Your Soft Reply. The Sound Of Glass Speaks Quick, Disdain And Conceals What Your Eyes Fight To Explain.