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

Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding/Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.

Man, I'm sick of doubt.

You live you die and death not ends it.

Actually I don't remember being born, it must have happened during one of my black outs.

The world we suggest is a new wild west. A sensuous evil world. Strange and haunting, the path of the sun.

The time to hesitate is through.