The ghosts race towards the light, you can almost hear the heavy breathing spirits, all determined to get somewhere. New Orleans, unlike a lot of places you go back to and that don't have the magic anymore, still has got it. Night can swallow you up, yet none of it touches you. You can't see it, but you know it's here. Somebody's always sinking.

Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're tryin' to be so quiet?

In the home of the brave, Jefferson turning over in his grave.

The tree of life is growing where the spirit never dies, and the bright light of salvation shines in dark and empty skies.

Upon four-legged forest clouds the cowboy angel rides

Some are masters of illusions, some are ministers of trade, all under the same delusion, all their beds unmade.

He did ten years in Attica, reading Nietzsche and Wilhelm Reich.