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I'm not his marionette. I'll work to his content, but I know my limits. I'm not his marionette.

It was another one of those "Dear Diary" moments-- minus the part of the diary. Pictures that end up meaning nothing. Some kind of unwritten hieroglyphics that any one could read. Maybe one of those monochrome butterflies built into your everlasting fairytale could take me away this time. I'm not so sure anymore about this. I'm not so sure anymore about what's going on. I'm just barely on the 5th page of this "Dear Diary" business, but maybe one day-- one day I'll reach out and just touch a whisp of it all.

And maybe it was one of those "Dear Diary" moments, but so what. I mean I was losing it anyway, no?

"Dear Diary," who's to blame when it all falls apart. When he's gone and wrapped up, waiting for me and all I can do is part from this hell? Who's to blame when we all just give up? When this future that's so meant to be just comes crashing down, and there's nothing to see?

maybe it'll come together soon. Maybe by page 2 of our fairytale dreams it'll come together and chord it's way to something that's off-- to something that just might go right with a couple of frets up.

"Dear Diary," five times high, this memory will fly by, and nothing will matter, when I reach him and the moon and back.