Now the baby's in the trash heap balling.

I would rather be stricken blind than to live without expression of mind.

Sometimes, when I'm alone, I cry, 'cause I am on my own. The tears I cry are bitter and warm. They flow with life, but take no form. I cry because my heart is torn. I find it difficult to carry on. If I had an ear to confide in, I would cry among my treasured friends, but who do you know that stops that long, to help another carry on?

I exist in the depths of solitude pondering my true goal. Trying to find peace of mind and still preserve my soul.

If it meant my love was really true, I'd gladly die and watch over you.

They loved the sight of your dimming, and flickering starlight. How could they understand what was so intricate to be loved by so many, so intimate.