i wrote this when i was fresh off the plane, waiting to be picked up to start my adventure:

As soon as I stepped off the plane I knew where I was. I found myself at a magazine stand, sitting at one of the silver tables, waiting for my ride. I keep on smiling. A deaf person tried to sell me a card with the hand signals for their alphabet on the back. I thought about it, but shook my head and gave the card back. I�ve been reading that book I stole about Bob Dylan. I like how he put his life in compartments�I do that too. I can never keep a tense consistent when I write things. The time change is gonna mess with me, but I�ll be fine.

Some might find it odd that I�d fly seven hours or so just to spend Thanksgiving with my best friends rather than keep my time and money and spend it with my family. After all, Thanksgiving is supposed to be about family. The thing is, I feel these guys are more my family than my real family will ever be. I don�t know if that makes me a bad person. I don�t know if everyone else feels the same. I just know what I know.

I�d like to try and write a song now, to do something productive with my time, but I don�t. I know if I try to do it right now, it would just turn out to be shit. I have to wait for the time to come to me instead of chasing it. Back to Bob Dylan. He left his family and everything behind to go to New York because that�s what he had to do if he wanted to become a �music star.� I look at my life and wonder if I have made enough sacrifices to actually make it. He simply would not get a job�I, on the other hand, got a real one. He would take what he needed, use what and whom he could. He did not allow himself to be constrained, restrained, or just strained, which is what I feel a lot of the time. Chasing time. Chasing time.