The geniuses are the crazies. The crazies are the geniuses. The whole sad, happy world is inside-out, upside-down, backwards, and forwards. The things are mixed up masses of crazy black and blue colors mixed in with the lights and darks of the people. Truths are lies, and lies are truths. Everything that is wrong is right. Everything right is wrong. What's going on? Where do we start? Where do we end? Maybe in the alleys of the bums and beats, streets, crazy beats of the clouds, dancing around, making sounds of different things. The strings are gone; worn down by the fingers of time. The plates are missing from the cabinets; broken on empty floors from so many angry accidents. Accidents aren't real. Dreams are real. Real silly things made by the streets of the mind. Driving waves are speeding up, slowing down, riding around. So many places to go. Buildings to live in, creep around, through the doors, on the ground. Crazy thoughts, sane thoughts. The reds, the blues, the me's, the yous. Pinky yellows float in the bathtubs in gardens of closed stores. Lovers fly around, and graze in fields. Hippies die and preach. The bums are old, and have dirty feet. Dirty fingernails on dirty hands, holding glass bottles in brown paper bags; sitting in tall, green grass, looked at by despising eyes. Do they know anyone? Who are they? The same as the beat. The dirt on their hands just as visible as junkies on the street, but somehow they pretend to be ten, twenty, no...a hundred times better than the people on the street. Or so they think.