Sunday, December 30, 2001
|1:19 PM|
It's cold but I'm sweating.
The things here are mighty confusing.
I'm thinking about cleaning.
I'm thinking about sleeping.
The last thing I'm doing
is any actual working.
Of poets, I'm no where near great
I just have a hunger that is hard to sate.
I need to produce something, I hate clean slates
If my rhyming gets worse I'll be locked up by the state.
I had some dreams that confused me.
But at least none involved being stung by a bee.
Okay, it's true that now I'm reaching like an old oak tree
but it's not like reading this costs you a fee.
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';
//That should close up the previous year.
///Say this is the swap from 2001 to 2002, that should close up the 2001 links.
///Problem is, we also need to close up the final month links too.
/// echo '