For a moment there I convinced myself I had my back against a wall, and suddenly the only wall I find my back against is that of a 10 by 10 writing shack in Glendale, where the summer days average between 90 and 100 and each song can be quantified in the sweat it took to write it. There is no ac in hell, and sometimes you've got to get down to get up. The train is gaining speed I should think.

Things are fragile, but we're all being carried and I think we're all on our path in that sense. As fragile as things are, we're still getting there.

And seemingly as winter has become spring, confusion has become insight.

I've found that falling doesn't always leave you fallen for.

But planes land and so do I, and suns rise, melting away the grounds cool protection. I am finally free, if only for this moment. And should that be the case, then know that I am throwing a parade in first class as I speak. Art has again saved my life, my love and me. What next? Who really cares? Certainly a toast will be in order. Make mine a double.

You're gonna get thrown curve balls left and right, and that's just the way it goes.

People in the hospital ... call me the wellest man on the ward. That's what's going to sustain me. I have these energy reserves that I somehow can't seem to deplete.