We don’t and haven’t ever had a plan for action, we just hang on to this magic carpet and hope we remember to spell magic correctly I guess. Where are we going now? What whim, what fancy, where are we blowing, was that me?
Hmmm, except if we’re not careful I think we’ve been caught in some traces, by some great machination, made to walk around and around in a circle like a horse in a mill, a dog on a track. But I can tell by the toss of your head it’s all going to bust loose. Don’t forget to let me grab ahold of you to hang on, because I love the way you race with your head down and ears back, short piston legs a blur, and you don’t stop until you feel the changes.
I can’t wait to get there.