Whither Goest Thou, America, In

It Was A Rainy Night. It Was The Myth Of The Rainy Night.

Something Good Will Come Out Of All Things Yet — And It Will Be Golden And Eternal Just Like That.

Swinging On Delicate Hinges The Autumn Leaf Almost Off The Stem.

The Only People For Me Are The Mad Ones, The Ones Who Are Mad To Live, Mad To Talk, Mad To Be Saved, Desirous Of Everything At The Same Time, The Ones Who Never Yawn Or Say A Commonplace Thing, But Burn, Burn, Burn Like Fabulous Yellow Roman Candles Exploding Like Spiders Across The Stars.

Our Battered Suitcases Were Piled On The Sidewalk Again; We Had Longer Ways To Go. But No Matter, The Road Is Life.