memory of a free festival.

The children of the summer's end gathered in the dampened grass. We played our songs and felt the London sky resting on our hands - it was God's land. It was ragged and naive - it was heaven. Touch, we touched the very soul of holding each and every life. We claimed the very source of joy ran through. It didn't, but it seemed that way. I kissed alot of people that day. Oh, to capture just one drop of all the ecstacy that swept that afternoon, to paint that love upon a white balloon and fly it from the toppest tops of all the tops that man has pushed beyond his brain. Satori must be something just the same.

The Sun Machine is Coming Down, and We're Gonna Have a Party.