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White in the moon the long road lies, The moon stands blank above; White in the moon the long road lies That leads me from my love. Still hangs the hedge without a gust, Still, still the shadows stay: My feet upon the moonlit dust Pursue the ceaseless way. The world is round, so travellers tell, And straight through reach the track, Trudge on, trudge on, 'twill all be well, The way will guide one back. But ere the circle homeward hies Far, far must it remove: White in the moon the long road lies That leads me from my love.
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We are all made from star dust and we will all return to star dust, like a cosmic palindrome.
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Much of our ignorance is of ourselves. Our eyes are full of dust. Prejudice blinds us.
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I didn't make my first solo record until 1981 so I don't have any 60′s or 70′s recordings but I am working on a large boxed set called DUST to be released next year, the 20th anniversary of my first solo record.
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I would certainly never consider myself a Renaissance Man; I'm not fit to look at the dust from the chariot wheels of many of those who have gone before me.
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Aggressive Christianity is the world's greatest need.
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One bright and thankful look at the cross is worth a thousand morbid, self-condemning reflections.
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Reality is like a fruitcake; pretty enough to look at but with all sorts of nasty things lurking just beneath the surface.
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Quiet descended, a silence so consuming that even the drafty corridors ceased whistling. Bog wasn't certain where to look, so he solved the problem by plucking out his eyes and sticking them in a drawer.
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Look at the blogosphere - the biggest lavatory wall in the universe, a palimpsest of graffiti and execration.
