I keep going back to it: the road home, like a map to some forgotten
place lived in a long time ago. I'd get lost otherwise. There are no
signs on other streets, no directions, not a clue anywhere. The 3-A's
can't tell me where that town is. No travel agent can. People aren't
much help. They say, "Home? Heaven? I live down the street.
Perfection? I don't know much about that."
I'm going back there now. I'm on the road. And I've got my little
book with the gold-tipped pages tucked away in my valise. I can't be
without it. Each day I get it out and lose myself on that road, in order
to find myself (the true self that knows only the real).
The little book explains words like "When the morning stars sang together,
and all the sons of God shouted for joy" and "What is truth?"
And I have to find that town and that choir and get in there and start
singing again. Singing the truth.
