The Writer Must Hew The Phantom Rock.

The Trouble With Me Is That For A Long Time I Have Just Been An I Person. All People Belong To A We Except Me. Not To Belong To A We Makes You Too Lonesome.

The Writer Is By Nature A Dreamer - A Conscious Dreamer.

But You Haven't Never Loved God Nor Even Nair Person. You Hard And Tough As Cowhide. But Just The Same I Knows You. This Afternoon You Going To Roam All Over The Place Without Never Being Satisfied. You Going To Traipse All Around Like You Haves To Find Something Lost. You Going To Work Yourself Up With Excitement. Your Heart Going To Beat Hard Enough To Kill You Because You Don't Love And Don't Have Peace. And Then Some Day You Going To Bust Loose And Be Ruined.

Next To Music Beer Was Best.

The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter.