Not That It Was Beautiful, But That,

The Place I Live In Is A Kind Of Maze And I Keep Seeking The Exit Or The Home.

The Future Is A Fog That Is Still Hanging Out Over The Sea, A Boat That Floats Home Or Does Not.

God Has A Brown Voice, As Soft And Full As Beer.

I Am Not At Home In Myself. I Am My Own Stranger.

Today Is Made Of Yesterday, Each Time I Steal Toward Rites I Do Not Know, Waiting For The Lost Ingredient, As If Salt Or Money Or Even Lust Would Keep Us Calm And Prove Us Whole At Last.