In the holy solipsism of the young Now I can't walk thru a city street w/out eying each single pedestrian. I feel thier vibe thru my skin, the hair on my neck --- it rises.

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

We are content in the 'given' in sensation's quest. We have been metamorphosised from a mad body dancing on hillsides to a pair of eyes staring in the dark.

There's nothing wrong with being a large mammal.

Morning found us unaware, noon burn gold into our hair, at night we swim the laughin sea, where will we be?

Music inflames temperament.

Blood is the rose of mysterious union.