At night I closed my eyes and saw my bones threading the mud of my grave.

The only truth is music.

and nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old

But night would come and with it the mountain moon and the lake would be moon - laned and I'd go out and sit in the grass and meditate facing west, wishing there were a Personal God in all this impersonal matter.

I don't wanta hear all your word descriptions of words words words you made up all winter, man I wanta be enlightened by actions.

Houses are full of things that gather dust

Thinking of the stars night after night I begin to realize 'The stars are words' and all the innumerable worlds in the Milky Way are words, and so is this world too. And I realize that no matter where I am, whether in a little room full of thought, or in this endless universe of stars and mountains, it’s all in my mind.