After The Sunset On The

Rest Is Not A Word Of Free People. Rest Is A Monarchical Word.

Money Buys Everything Except Love, Personality, Freedom, Immortality, Silence, Peace.

Yesterday And Tomorrow Cross And Mix On The Skyline. The Two Are Lost In A Purple Haze. One Forgets, One Waits.

Poetry Is A Tracing Of The Trajectories Of A Finite Sound To The Infinite Points Of Its Echoes.

Drum On Your Drums, Batter On Your Banjos, Sob On The Long Cool Winding Saxophones. Go To It, O Jazzmen.