January 30, 1999: VH-1 called Morrison a Shaman
My visions: attained without lethal weapons. To stare into a blizzard white wall captivates the flow of wind. I laugh at being thought of—I cry when pain becomes too loud. My smile is of distance—not here nor there, but elsewhere. Pulling toward the tips of each blade—my imagination begs to devour the impossibilities of possible. I view not the crafts brought to life but the aura of their breath. I hold instead, a gentle wind…without sight, making it more deadly than a growing storm in the western sky. From its wings silence grows—like that of a garbage fly, a traveler of many miles only to live for two days.