Awake. Shake dreams from your hair my pretty child, my sweet one. Choose the day and choose the sign of your day, the day's divinity. First thing you see. A vast radiant beach and cooled jeweled moon couples naked race down by it's quiet side and we laugh like soft, mad children smug in the wooly cotton brains of infancy. The music and voices are all around us. Choose they croon the Ancient Ones. The time has come again. Choose now, they croon beneath the moon beside an ancient lake. Enter again the sweet forrest. Enter the hot dream. Come with us, everything is broken up and dances. Indians scattered, on dawn's highway bleeding ghosts crowd the young child’s, fragile eggshell mind. We have assembled inside this ancient and insane theater, to propagate our lust for life and flee the swarming wisdom of the streets. The barns have stormed, the windows kept and only one of all the rest to dance and save us from the divine mockery of words, music inflames temperament. Oh great creator of being grant us one more hour, to perform our art and perfect our lives. We need great golden copulations when the true kings murderers are allowed to roam free. A thousand magicians arise in the land. Where are the feast we are promised? One more thing... Thank you, oh lord, for the white blind light. Thank you, oh lord, for the white blind light. A city rises from the sea, I had a splitting headache from which the future's made.
James Douglas Morrison