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January eighth, two thousand and two Dear diary, I write this in hopes that the universe will finally recieve me with open arms Oh opposition, how long will you continue? Opposition, how many tears must you draw? But know this, not every tear that has graced my cheek has been A tear of confrontation, but some have been tears of joy So on this eighth day of the new year, 3:41 central time, I stand confident, Oh my God of great goodness, Is it possible just maybe, that I can write halfway intelligent lyrics And make music that people might possibly like? Is that possible? Is it possible that what I do is what I want to actually do, And not the result of selling out? heh
Oh hi little bluebird, you wonderful creation of Joy You're beautiful. Sing to me, you sing to me bluebird, You sing beautiful. Now I'll sing to you... Reuben, what am I dippity doin?
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