Life Is A Loom, Weaving

The Only Thing That A Man May Do That Is New, Is To Write Himself On Human Hearts.

I Think On Death As The Apparent End Of The Illusions That Encompass Us. They All Have A Sudden And Unexpected End, That Challenges Any Faith We Have Pinned To Their Worth.

Mumbo-jumbo Will Hoo-doo You, Mumbo-jumbo Will Hoo-doo You. Mumbo . . . Jumbo . . . Will . . . Hoo-doo . . . You.

You Can't Crush Ideas By Suppressing Them. You Can Only Crush Them By Ignoring Them.

The Sun Is A Huntress Young, The Sun Is A Red, Red Joy, The Sun Is An Indian Girl, Of The Tribe Of The Illinois. The Sun Is A Smouldering Fire, That Creeps Through The High Gray Plain, And Leaves Not A Bush Of Cloud To Blossom With Flowers Of Rain. The Sun Is A Wounded Deer, That Treads Pale Grass In The Skies, Shaking His Golden Horns, Flashing His Baleful Eyes. The Sun Is An Eagle Old, There In The Windless West. Atop Of The Spirit-cliffs He Builds Him A Crimson Nest.