Love is a rainbow curving down from the sky, falling crystals of color, shades of warm that never die.
The final story, the final chapter of Western man, I believe, lies in Los Angeles.
Beneath the greatest love lies a hurricane of hate.
God isn't dead - he's just missing in action.
It's always the old to lead us to the war. It's always the young to fall.
Call it peace or call it treason / call it love or call it reason / but I ain't marching anymore