Lying On Stained, Wretched Sheets With A

I Offer Images-i Conjure Memories Of Freedom That Can Still Be Reached-like The Doors, Right? But We Can Only Open The Doors-we Can't Drag People Through.

We Hide Ourselves In Our Music To Reveal Ourselves

A Moving Or Movement Away From A Station A Waving Away From A Waving A Motion Amazement A Moment Amazing A Waving

Take An Indian Home To Lunch.

Guileless And Without Vanity, We Were Still In Love With Ourselves Then. We Felt Comfortable In Our Skins, Enjoyed The News That Our Senses Released To Us, Admired Our Dirt, Cultivated Our Scars, And Could Not Comprehend This Unworthiness. Jealousy We Understood And Thought Natural--a Desire To Have What Somebody Else Had; But Envy Was A Strange, New Feeling For Us.