9:33 am - Saturday, May. 04, 2002
Song:
Written:
I'm moving my pen, but nothings coming out. Touching it to paper does nothing. My minds not flowing, so how can my words. I don't remember when my dad first got a real job. I think it was soemtime after we moved to the new house, or maybe it was sometime before. First years begin to slide together, then months, then weeks, and now days become one big block of conciousness accented by sleep on the phone and the occasional 19 hours, and it starts over again. Sleep is how I determine time. I sense time differantly, yet very much the same. I have problems staying up all day, never all night.
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