coda;

Vill också tillägga att jag borde skriva i min fågelbok i natt.
Känner att det finns en massa ord och mening och tankar där som vill ut, men jag tror inte att det kommer att gå i natt.
Den här känslan är alldeles för ny och oväntad och måste bearbetas lite först. Uh.


Snälla läs vad Joni Mitchell skrev:

It was a rainy night
We took a taxi to your mother's home
She went to Florida and left you
With your father's gun, alone
Upon her small white bed
I fell into a dream
You sat up all the night and watched me
To see, who in the world I might be.

I am from the Sunday school
I sing soprano in the upstairs choir
You are a holy man
On the F.M. radio
I sat up all the night and watched thee
To see, who in the world you might be.

You called me beautiful
You called your mother - she was very tanned
So you packed your tent and went
To live out in the Arizona sand
You are a refugee
From a wealthy family
You gave up all the golden factories
To see, who in the world you might be.

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