Should I Not Hear, As

One Is Least Sure Of One's Self, Sometimes, When One Is Most Positive.

The Hiss Was Now Becoming A Roar - The Whole World Was A Vast Moving Screen Of Snow - But Even Now It Said Peace, It Said Remoteness, It Said Cold, It Said Sleep.

Should I Not Hear, As I Lie Down In Dust, The Horns Of Glory Blowing Above My Burial?

We Are The Ghosts Of The Singing Furies .

I've Tried It Long Ago, With Hashish And Peyote. Fascinating, Yes, But No Good, No. This, As We Find In Alcohol, Is An Escape From Awareness, A Cheat, A Momentary Substitution, And In The End A Destruction Of It.