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Sunday, Apr. 04, 2004 - 2:23 p.m.

We played a sort of stupid show last night Ė there was nothing wrong, really, no mishaps or bad vibes, but it wasnít inspiring. And now L is having one of those musical crises of the soul that Iím so prone to, and it makes me sad.

I, on the other hand, have felt more like playing the guitar and writing songs lately Ė even, astonishingly, writing lyrics that are supposed to mean something. Most of the time we just fill in words with the right vowels sounds, words that are neither too ponderously vague nor too specific, words that are meant to mean nothing but do not even draw attention to themselves as nonsense Ė theyíve got less content than nonsense. Probably half the songs Iíve ever written are like this, and most of the bandís songs are, but lately itís started to bother me. So Iím trying to write better lyrics. The problem is that most lyrics in the world are really, really bad, and mine are no exception. I need, like Clint Conley did, to find my own Holly Anderson.

The time change, as usual, gets me down. How can it be 2:18 PM when I just woke up?

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