It's gratifying that it does; I love to give readings.
All my lyrics are open to interpretation by the individual and imply many different meanings, therefore their relevance is purely subjective.
Existence is. . well. . what does it matter? I exist on the best terms I can. The past is now part of my future. The present is well out of hand.
Reality is only a dream, based on values and well worn principles, whereas the dream goes on forever.
I struggle between what I know is right in my own mind, and some warped truthfulness as seen through other people's eyes who have no heart, and can't see the difference anyway.
Nothing seems real anymore. Even the flames from the fire seem to beckon to me, drawing me into some great past life buried somewhere deep in my subconscious, if only I could find the key. . if only. . if only. Ever since my illness, my condition, I've been trying to find some logical way of passing my time, of justifying a means to an end.
When routine bites hard, and ambitions are low. When resentment rides high, but emotion won't grow. . . and we're changing our ways, taking different roads. Love will tear us apart.
That's what I mean by something grips in a canvas. The moment that happens you are then sucked into the whole thing. Like some kind of rhythm.
Education must be taken out of the hands of rich illiterates, third rate politicians, and put where it belongs: in the care of scholars. At present the whole University system is rotten to the core, and an appalling waste of time, energy and money.
Nothing is as easy to make as a promise this winter to do something next summer; this is how commencement speakers are caught.
Man must be in space - that is what we are destined for. There is nothing else that we can do.