The best songs just come unasked for. You don't have to think about them. Summer is a good time for songs.

No one gets out of here alive.

I am troubled, immeasurably by your eyes. I am struck by the feather of your soft reply. The sound of glass speaks quick, disdain and conceals what your eyes fight to explain.

Where's your will to be weird?

Rather than starting inside, I start outside and reach the mental through the physical.

I believe in a long, prolonged, derangement of the senses in order to obtain the unknown.

Out here on the perimeter there are no stars. Out here we is stoned. Immaculate.