well, i still have a little doubt if i want to make the sounds of my feet on your porch. but i did, so will you let me in? now i'm sitting in your kitchen and i'm begging for scraps of your intellect but I know full well that i can't control any advice that i might get. the summer's green and hazy and i can't slow down to its pace and you don't seem to be relating to all my guilt from feeling lazy. but when it's 4am and your window's pink and blue i will drop my thoughts because i know your melody will soon ring through. reread those pages that you wrote and you'll find out what they mean to you. our sketchbooks spoke a language of pictures that just sang the truth. and i've found comfort in the words of other people. now i can go to bed and say "amen". but don't get lost in the shadow of a steeple because then you're doing someone else's praying.