... We're Living In A Machiavellian World,

Night Can Swallow You Up, Yet None Of It Touches You. Around Any Corner, There's A Promise Of Something Daring And Ideal And Things Are Just Getting Going. There's Something Obscenely Joyful Behind Every Door, Either That Or Somebody Crying With Their Head In In Their Hands. A Lazy Rhythm Looms In The Dreamy Air And The Atmosphere Pulsates With Bygone Duels, Past-life Romance, Comrades Requesting Comrades To Aid Them In Some Way. You Can't See It, But You Know It's There

There's Danger In This Open World Where Men Strive To Be Free, And To Me The Greatest Danger Was In Society.

Death To Me Means Nothing As Long As I Can Die Fast.

The Only Person You Have To Think About Lying Twice To Is Either Yourself Or To God. The Press Isn't Either Of Them. And I Just Figured They're Irrelevant.

I Don't Know If I Call Myself A Poet Or Not. I Would Like To, But I'm Not Really Qualified To Make That Decision, Because I Come In On Such A Back Door, That I Don't Know What A Robert Frost Or A [john] Keats Or A T.s. Eliot Would Really Think Of My Stuff.