1982-2005

The saddest words of tongue and pen is that lament: might have been.

Sadder than a sad, sad song.

Whispering voices saying, "don't fret".

Moonlit conversations ring with itensity.

Driving at night in the summer with the windows down and good music roaring.

Driving slowly in the winter in the sleet with soft music flowing.

Drinking by the fireside.

Eating someone else's mother's food.

Petting a cousin's dog.

Click-clacking down the street in cleats.

My best friend is my best friend.

Morsels.

Indefatigable.

Maybe he's been seriously injured behind the ribs.

Headlights heading towads my head.

Insulting pigeons in the park.

Justify the action.

You see, this is why I'd rather sleep alone.

But now the call is louder than thunderclaps in the old barn.

Psychadelic telephone.