In every written letter
Things get that bit better,
My moving thrill is improving still
But not always,
I still have days
I'm pretty down
A tired frown
Takes its place upon my face,
And I don't know what to do.
To give that thought a context
We were asked just out of interest
By a friend if we could cope alone,
And I said yes to your surprise,
I saw unbelief in your eyes
And now I see you were right,
I hate to be on my own.
So I pull up my blankets and I shut my eyes
My subconscious takes over,
And gives a nightly surprise:

The blossom thrills the trees with such impossibility,
These yellow days I stand amazed at the other ways to dream.
The shining gleam of light on the cool waters of the stream,
Can there be a melody to match?
We'll catch the chaos in our pages and display its graceful stages,
To our patient model we'll attach
A gratitude, an attitude of mumbled humble awe.

I wake from these sleepful states,
And in pours disdain and daytime hate,
A lack of motivation, a lack of skill.
I avoid it but it gets me,
The computer it infects me,
And straps me to its screen and makes me ill.
And all of these iPods and MySpace advances are devious addictive dances,
That tire the feet but won't let us take a seat.
It's all for music's sake,
but our collection's like a lake,
With every new addition,
Smothered among the heaving mass of others,
until all the fish, they taste the same.

In every written letter
Things get that bit better,
My moving thrill is improving still
But not always,
I still have days
I'm pretty down
A tired frown
Takes its place upon my face,
And I don't know what to do.