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Oh, I just woke up, should I be feeling guilty? Missed the power lunch again, missed the power scene. I think I’ll have a power shower, I’m feeling filthy. And for just a few moments, no other person in this city will be as clean as me.
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This represents a transition in subject. What was topical once was topical once, and now is garbage. Assessment of objects in this auction at the graveyard isn’t counting for much.
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They declared it impossible.
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He was at a loss, words weren’t flowing like they had once. He would sit on the couch at midnight, all the lamps switched off. But then she entered bearing a platter of macaroons, and starlight suddenly flooded the living room.
He’d found his muse. Words were flowing like orange juice. He wrote her a novel and a trumpet fugue. He wrote a story cycle, a concept album, and a book of haiku. But when he looked up he found that he had no one to give them to.
He ran to her door, got on his knees on her kitchen floor. She said, "Your words fill the planet’s oceans, but they miss its core." And in an instant all his words to their essence were reduced. He stood up and pulled her close, then he whispered in her ear, "I love you."
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I know it's hard.
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And everyone is happier with everyone, and again I felt rich. I had enough to keep me holding on, and again, I felt rich. When you’ve found a savior, how much should you save and how much should you spend? When you’ve found a savior, aren’t you guaranteed favor and world without end? Again, I felt rich.
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The cat’s dragging rats from the crawlspace cause he thinks that he’d like to move in. He thinks he can make it a nice place where he and his buddies can sing:
Oh, roofbuilder, thank you for building the frame. Oh, roofbuilder, to us the floor and the roof are the same.
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When times are turning blue, know I love you. Things you’re not sure you can do, picture me above you, floating in the sky—it has no limits, nor do you and I. You may be blue, the sky is, too. I love you.
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Yesterday my heart was aching, but every pencil point I put down kept on breaking. Maybe my grip was too tight, maybe I was too strong, but why baby, why baby, why haven’t I written a song in so very long?
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A crooked baker’s three-dozen tunes recorded over a two-week period in the summer of 1998, this music was originally intended for internal use only—it’s a bunch of fragments and songs in progress. This album has its player haters, but you'll find early sketches of some classic Egg here ("In the Loft," "Keep It with You," "This Is What I Saw," "Tomorrow I’ll Change"), and since the songs are so short, it's good for car trips and moody days when you don’t know what you feel like listening to.
Now available only as part of the anthology Open Book: The Collected Thunderegg, 1995–2004 (231 mp3s plus a 108-page lyric book).
thunderegg.bandcamp.com/album/open-book-2006