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per amica silentia lunae

or, across the ferny brae with the evil voodoo celt

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shine on, you crazy diamond
Pink Floyd founder Syd Barrett dies at home

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail? A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

And did they get you trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change? And did you exchange
a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl,
year after year,
running over the same old ground. What have we found?
The same old fears,
wish you were here.

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It is sad, but just think: now he'll get to party with Jim Morrison.

And Janis, and Jimi, and Marc... not sure whether he'd get along with Warren or not.

But yeah... in some ways, he really died long ago, and couldn't rebirth himself. Thirty years in Limbo in his mother's basement. ::sigh::

I think I'll play a bunch of his songs at New Deal next week.

Good idea.

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