In the beginning we were creating our music, ourselves, every night . . . starting with a few outlines, maybe a few words for a song. Sometimes we worked out in Venice, looking at the surf. We were together a lot and it was good times for all of us. Acid, sun, friends, the ocean, and poetry and music.

Where are the feasts we were promised? Where is the wine, the new wine, dying on the vine.

We want the world and we want it...

Drugs are a bet with your mind.

Resident mockery, give us an hour for magic.

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

We fear violence less than our own feelings. Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict.