I've got so much to say, but absolutely nothing to write about. So you get to suffer. I swear it's not your fault, there is just too much going on. I've written five songs on my Rhodes, and I'm playing with Imelda. She, by the way, is my hero. I've got projects going that involve shovels and irrigation. I need o pay more attention to my savings account. I have friends who are facing the long arm of the law for no apparent reason, and I've got rent to worry about. That is why you don't hear from me, here, now, or recently. I've got stuff to do. I got these things on me, and these things that I wish were on me, but aren't, but should be.
Rest assured that I bought some vegemite.
I don't understand that substance, vegemite.
I hope it's a hiccup in human consciousness, like W was, but it is hard to believe that an entire continent likes vegemite.
Australia, convince me.
Because that stuff is just plain wrong.
Where is my beautiful mystery?