“TIMETimegoes round and roundthe spinning clock,until the fateful daytimefolds it's tired handsand stops.”

“Every clock is a bomb, ticking away at the minutes of our lives, counting off the seconds one by one before we die.At birth a heart it given a certain number of beats. The clock is counting them off one by one and will not allow a man any more than his allotted share.”

“We are all rotting, making our way from womb to tomb, to the rhythm of the great clock counting downward to the grave.”

“My head was spinning. I felt like I’d been drifting, lost at sea all my life, and now that I’d found dry land, I couldn’t quite get my bearings.”

“This is the house where they found Jack dead.This is the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.This is the floorin the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.This is the wall, splattered in red,standing next to the floor,in the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.This is the door leading into the tomb.This is the wall splattered in red,standing next to the floorin the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.This is the clock hanging over the door.This is the wall splattered in redstanding next to the floorin the roomin the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.This is the bird coming out of the clockhanging over the doorin the wallby the floorin the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.This is the song in the heart of the birdcoming out of the clockhanging over the doorin the wallby the floorin the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.These are the wordsto the song of the birdcoming out of the clockhanging over the doorin the wallby the floorin the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.This is the man who sits in the cell.Eleven years have come and gone.Jack is dead, but he lives on.He waits in silence, but he still can hear.The ancient song echoes in his ears.The sound of time with its tick tick TOCK!The song of the bird coming out of the clock,hanging over a door leading into a tomb,where there stand four walls splattered all in red,and a floor where a good man fell and bled,in the room of the house where they found Jack dead.These are the words of the cuckoo’s song,as he asks us who will right these wrongs.The cuckoo sings and the cuckoo wails,for the dead who cannot tell their tales.Rage all you want, but at close of day,justice is mine, and I will repay.”

“Dylan -People luk at me and wok akros the streetSo tired of the suspishus eyesOn all the faces that i meetAnd tell me, if i tryTo be a diferent guy,Will you be the girlTo rearrange my wirld?You take me up,You take me down,Take me to the sky,Take me to the ground,I'd go anywhereIf you would only take me there.”

“It's not the Destination...it's the Journey..”