There is a tree in Paradise, and the Pilgrims call it the Tree of Life.

Take your time and you'll be fine, And say a prayer for people there, Who live on the floor. And if you see what's meant to be, Don't name the day or try to say, It happened before.

Don't Think Twice, It's Alright.

I guess what I'm trying to say, is that this all feels very familiar. But this life is not really mine to be familiar with. I just know that someone has felt this before. When its peaceful outside, and you're thinking about your future, and listening to Nick Drake and thinking about someone you've never met, and all the books you've read have been read by other people, and all the songs you've loved are loved by other people, and all the people you think are attractive, are attractive to other people, and all the lies you've told have been believed by other people. And if you'd -a thought of all these things while you were happy, youd feel great because you're describing unity, I guess. And you're ok with that, and you begin to feel optomistic. And you think of all the wonderful people you'll meet and all of the people you don't hate, and all of the life still ahead, and all of the mistakes you'd like to make, and ..

A man impoverished, is ambition.

Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head.

Ah- I've got some nasty habits, I take my tea at three.

Love is found in us all,
a dormant monster awakened,
at a glimpse of its counter in another.
I feel tiresome.
I need to feel something,
other than drooling conundrums,
and philosophical, abundant, shit.
Thats all I can spew out today,
Theres too many swedish fish whirring around in my head

Come on Bartender, won't you be more tender?

Am I a prisoner to instincts, or am I destined to live free and detattched as boats to a dock? The future seems a long ways away, and yet its looming over my head. As I sit in school, recoiling in the midst of high pitched squabblings and truly archaic faces, I spurn the sudden urge to grab my bag and books and tear out of those absurdly blue double doors, skiv off my lessons, and run through the streets, tearing my clothes and running, screaming, kicking, and dancing out of sight. Out into the streets, mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, destined never to yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles, exploding like spiders across the stars. And in the clouds, see the blue centerlight pop and a light so warm and brilliant, until it comes chasing after me. Is that abnormal? Well other than that, I've got nothing to say, I've got nothing to give.