Acid, Booze, And Ass, Needles,

Augustine, Anne Sexton And Sylvia Plath Are Confessional Writers And All Three Make Me Sick. I Have Nothing In Common With Them.

All Romantics Meet The Same Fate Some Day. Drunk And Cynical And Boring Someone In Some Dark Cafe.

We Managed To Put Together A Compilation That Had Some Creativity To It. In The Meantime I Was Listening To The Free Radio Stations And I Noticed That During Their War Coverage They Were Playing These Songs Born Out Of The Vietnam War That Were All Critical Of The Soldiers.

But Now Old Friends Are Acting Strange They Shake Their Heads, They Say I've Changed Well Something's Lost, But Something's Gained In Living Every Day

Once I Got The Open Tunings For Some Reason, I Began To Get The Harmonic Sophistication That I Heard That My Musical Fountain Inside Was Excited By. Once I Got Some Interesting Chords To Play With, My Writing Began To Come.