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When you make your peace with authority, you become authority.
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When you're strange Faces come out of the rain When you're strange No one remembers your name When you're strange.
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In the beginning we were creating our music, ourselves, every night . . . starting with a few outlines, maybe a few words for a song. Sometimes we worked out in Venice, looking at the surf. We were together a lot and it was good times for all of us. Acid, sun, friends, the ocean, and poetry and music.
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At first flash of Eden, We race down to the sea. Standing there on Freedom's shore. Waiting for the sun...
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They can picture love affairs of chemicals and stars, a romance of stones, or the fertility of fire. Strange, fertile correspondences the alchemists sensed in unlikely orders of being. Between men and planets, plants and gestures, words and weather.
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You live you die and death not ends it.
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The time to hesitate is through.
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Give form to the passing World. Freeways are a drama.
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It hurts to set you free, but you’ll never follow me.
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Do you know we are ruled by T.V.?
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There may be a time when we'll attend Weather Theaters to recall the sensation of rain.
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Friends can help each other. A true friend is someone who lets you have total freedom to be yourself - and especially to feel. Or, not feel. Whatever you happen to be feeling at the moment is fine with them. That's what real love amounts to - letting a person be what he really is.
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A hero is someone who rebels or seems to rebel against the facts of existence and seems to conquer them. Obviously that can only work at moments. It can't be a lasting thing. That's not saying that people shouldn't keep trying to rebel against the facts of existence. Someday, who knows, we might conquer death, disease and war.
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I see myself as a huge fiery comet, a shooting star. Everyone stops, points up and gasps 'Oh look at that!' Then - whoosh, and I'm gone... and they'll never see anything like it ever again... and they won't be able to forget me - ever.
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Out here on the perimeter there are no stars. Out here we is stoned. Immaculate.
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Tell them you came, and saw, and looked into my eyes and saw the shadow of the guard receding. Thoughts in time and out of season, the hitchinker stood by the side of the road and levelled his thumb in the calm calculus of reason. [...] Why does my mind circle around you? Why do planets wonder what it would be like to be you? All your soft wild promises were words, birds, endlessly in flight.
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Nobody would stay interested in me if I was normal...
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What have they done to the earth? What have they done to our fair sister? Ravaged and plundered and ripped her and bit her Stuck her with knives in the side of the dawn And tied her with fences and dragged her down...
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I'll tell you this - No eternal reward will forgive us now for wasting the dawn.
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I think the highest and lowest points are the important ones. Anything else is just...in between.
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There are things known and things unknown and in between are The Doors.
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We hide ourselves in our music to reveal ourselves...
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Twentieth-century culture's disease is the inability to feel their reality. People cluster to TV, soap operas, movies, theater, pop idols and they have wild emotion over symbols. But in the reality of their own lives, they're emotionally dead.
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My wild words slip into fusion and risk losing the solid ground. So stranger, get wilder still. Probe the highlands.