The bright bird of sunset, not drumming on jars and singing, not producing tears in streams, not grieving with laments, then arising suddenly, then praised, then dying, then thrown away, then light again, then returning, treading staggeringly-- respect it. It's not necessary to be perfect. But it's imperative for spring. To be as true as a lie is. To wander its quiet increment, and the bribery---
And the BET award for best comeback-forward
It's really, very, very real to be here tonight in relation to life and death and I'm sure they both love each other
If you act like you mean it, I'll act like I mean it too. We're all turing 30 lenient times through it. We all mean it too much to be symbols of it. So we're all becoming more and more anonymous. Flippant even. And serious. Imperative again. Some demon swans and some angel swans. I wander from wing to recombinant wing singing on it and talking about how your mom is so... honest... we all wanna be more or less like her, more or less, and less moraless--
It's the only reliable thing.
