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

Music inflames temperament.

Getting drunk . . . you're in complete control up to a point. It's your choice, every time you take a sip. You have a lot of small choices. It's like . . . I guess it's the difference between suicide and slow capitulation . . .

Los Angeles is a city looking for a ritual to join its fragments, and The Doors are looking for such a ritual also. A kind of electric wedding. We hide ourselves in the music to reveal ourselves.

the human race was dying out Noone left to scream n shout People living on the moon Smog will get you pretty soon Ship of Fools

The grand highway is crowded w/lovers & searchers & leavers so eager to please & forget. Wilderness.

I want to have my kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames.