Yesterday is just a memory.
Shedding off one more layer of skin, Keeping one step ahead of the persecutor within.
In the fury of the moment/ I can see the Master's hand In every leaf that trembles, in/ every grain of sand.
An artist has got to be constantly in a state of becoming.
Good intentions can be evil, both hands are full of grease. You know, sometimes Satan comes as a man of peace.
Too much information about nothing.