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April 10th, 1993

I love the smell of a freshly printed notebook when you open up to the first page. It smells so industrial and processed, just like the factory in China that it came from, but for some reason it hits all the pleasure centers in my brain. It’s the beginning of a new chapter - a new age in my life - with every notebook I go through. It reminds me of the joy I have in writing down song lyrics, chords, and just my thoughts day to day. It’s certainly one the highlights of my life, squished somewhere in between playing music on my park bench and finding out I made enough for a decent meal that day.

So, the first page in my new notebook! Let’s get some stuff out of the way, just in case this ends up falling into the claws of someone else far into the future. Hi! My name is Max Malik. I’m 26 years old, and a fairly traditional gryphon (Eagle/lion combo with wings on my back). I’m a musician, and I have been since I picked up my first guitar when I was just about 10 or so. Although, musician can be a dirty word in the wrong context. I make music, but I don’t participate in that specific lifestyle. I did try to for a bit, thinking it was the only way that I could keep on writing music, but that didn’t last long. I gave up on my large label record contract after only a few months, and I decided to blaze my own way through life.

That went just about as well as you might expect. Without the backing of any major recording label, there wasn’t much I could really do to get a steady income in the music business. My side-projects and self-recordings got no traction, and the few cover bands I was in only did so well. When I ran out of money, I was left little choice but to find myself a cozy little place inside of a local park during the night. It isn’t as bad as it sounds though. I am finally free to do what I want and how I want it. I could sing, play guitar, and write music all day every day, and have it based on my own schedule and creative moods. People even sometimes gave me money for doing it too!

Anyway, on to today. My persistent cough is still plaguing me a good bit. I can usually fight back and keep my airway clear whenever I perform during the lunch and dinner rushes, but today I did feel it rise up and interrupt my lunchtime performance in a few places. The crowd that had carefully grown over a half hour quickly began to disperse as I took a small coughing break during my set, and most left without dropping anything into my guitar case as my performance came to a literal screeching halt. It took me a good ten minutes to get my lungs back into working shape, and by then I had to start all over again from the ground up. I lost a good bit of productive time, but I managed to make enough to get myself something to eat at least. That was the bare minimum I could survive on, so I can’t complain that much I guess. If I can scrounge up the money I do plan to go see a doctor, but until then I’ll just deal with it. It usually doesn’t get this bad, but recently I have had to take a water break and stop singing every few songs.

There is a bit of a plus side though. The extra phlegm in my throat does make it a little easier to get a good vocal growl going. It’s 1993 after all - grunge has taken over the world. That’s all anyone wants to hear, and I draw the biggest crowds while playing the most current selections from my music catalogue. Even on the most beautiful days, with the birds chirping and the sun shining, people want an excuse to be depressed, or at least to get those ill feelings out of their system so they can enjoy the day. I always make the best tips when I make things a little darker. The style works well for me too as things haven’t exactly gone perfectly for me either. I have a lot of experience to draw from, and more depressing songs kind of come out naturally when I sit down to write and perform something. People want to hear it, and I have a need to say it too. It’s a match made in Heaven, or maybe even the dark pits of Hell.

April 12th, 1993

Today's dinner jam went pretty well. The weather was nice, people were out, and they seemed to appreciate my playlist. I threw in a few old regulars, even some non-grunge crowd-pleasers, all while sprinkling in a few things I’m working on myself here and there. A few need a little tweaking, but everything is coming together. The 10 or so songs I have down are nearly done, and I’m just about ready to head into the Demon’s Den again to see if any of them are worth the industry’s time.

As much as I hate stepping foot inside of that large downtown building, with the giant shiny CD glistening over the entrance, I still need money. Playing for tips has been getting harder and harder as of recent, and the money isn't quite enough to get by on most days. It’s not like I get a fair shake at the record company either, but something is better than nothing. As much as I detest everything that goes on with the music business, it’s kind of ironic that I’m still part of it. I might not be a solid part of the bloated demon exactly, but yet I still need to feed it in order to survive myself. I’m still attached despite my best attempts to get away. Their chains are binding, leaving me bent and broken, as I struggle for air in the ever churning sea of helpless repulsion… I think I may just have started song 11 with that! Let’s see… some chords…

(unintelligible scribbles)

Dm - Asus - Em - F makes a nice progression. I think I can work with that.

Anyway, enough toying with that for now. I’ll sleep on it and see if I can work it into something in tomorrow’s morning jam. At least the night will be somewhat warm tonight. The measly blanket I managed to scrounge up should do the trick, although I wish I could grab a proper shower and unstick a few of my feathers. I need a good preening more than anything.

April 14th, 1993

I awoke today to news of another musician passing on. I first heard the news on MTV in the drug store while I was waiting to buy another bag of cough drops, and I couldn’t help but stand there and stare, listening to the entire story as it played out on the TV in front of me. Ron McClain, age 27, dead of a heroin overdose. He was gone far too soon, like so many others before him. Swallowed in, chewed up, and spit back out from the music industry, right at the height of his band’s popularity. Wicked Wendy had been a staple on the radio for a few years already, and one of my own songs had even ended up on one of their albums. Seeing his sheet-covered body being carried out of his mansion was like an extra personal kick in the gut.

His house was beautiful, as was his girlfriend that they interviewed in the process. He was obviously making tons of money, despite his record company’s best attempts of milking that from him too, but drugs had a habit of finding even the most privileged people and ruining their lives. I knew it was just part of the rock and roll culture, but I had no doubt his record label knew and didn’t care. Or maybe they were the ones who first turned him onto them. The thought that drug use made good songs wasn’t as true as the record execs wanted to believe. It was the pain, the torture, the helplessness of that drug habit that inspired the music, and there were plenty of less dangerous and more inspirational ways to get to that level. People didn’t need to go searching for problems when they had plenty to deal with already, and I doubt anyone even mentioned rehab to the poor guy, much less pushed him into it, so long as he was still writing stuff they could sell.

The whole thing left me with a bad taste in my beak as I pushed my way out of the store, partially furious, partially saddened, and partially inspired to work even harder on my own music. Wicked Wendy had used one of my songs, but honestly that was probably just a corporate decision. They had written some good things in their own right, and they could’ve kept on doing it for many years to come if things just continued on as they were. The record company might find a replacement - hell, they probably had a replacement list for every member of the band - but when you take one of the main guys out of something like that, nothing is ever the same. Maybe it’ll work, maybe it won’t. It’s just a shame that we had to go this route to find out. There was no going back - no reunion tour. He was dead and gone. Another victim to the music machine.

April 16th, 1993

It didn’t help my recent mood that the weather was a bit overcast and chilly, leaving me fluffing out my feathers and fur for my lunchtime performance. The crowd wasn’t as thick as usual today, for obvious reasons, but I still gave it my all even when no one was listening. I think that helped to draw in a crowd of people regardless of the weather as I strummed out some chords and sang from the heart, having a whole new well of emotion to draw from. I even had a person jump on in and help me sing a few Wicked Wendy songs while going through all of them that I could remember. When I got to the one I had written, I struggled to remember just how the radio version went though. It had been changed a decent bit from what I’d written myself, and not entirely for the better. It’d been made a little more poppy and radio-friendly, shifting some lyrics and parts around a bit, which I think messed with the whole structure of the song. But, the fine musical details seemed lost on whoever arranged it for their album, and although the band did a decent job performing it the song just wasn’t the same as when I let it go. I stumbled into a part that I had written, but that had been cut out, only to play it off as an accident and jump back into the chorus again instead. Yet, I finished the song to a roaring bit of applause, at least from whoever was out there to watch. It might not have been my song anymore, but it felt damn good to hear a few cheers and hollers for something I had written.

It really was moments like this that I truly loved, and the reason I knew I could do nothing other than write music. Seeing people come together and enjoy a performance, even with the threat of rain looming over their heads, spending a few moments of their busy lives just to relax and listen or even sing along was awe-inspiring. I loved leading them on, I loved seeing them sing along, and I loved how everyone walked away with a smile on their face, no matter how depressing the stuff they’d been singing about was. It was that connection with the audience that I knew I’d be missing if I let a large label get in the way. I saw how they changed the Wicked Wendy song, as well as a few others they’d used from me, and I knew they’d try to change even more if they could. Everything from what I’d wear, to how I’d sound, to where I could play, and all of that. They’d done it to me before when I signed on to my short lived contract, and they’d be quick to do it again without a second thought. The moment I eventually faltered, just like Ron had, I’d be done, pushed aside, and replaced. My name would be just a footnote in music history as ‘that guy from that band.’

I kept the crowd interested for a few more songs, with many spending a little longer than they would’ve thought listening to a musician in the park, at least until the raindrops started to hit. That sent most of them scattering rather quickly, and it left me to call the show early as I scurried my way back towards my current ‘home’. Luckily I had a tarp set up to keep most of the water out, although as the rain progressed just about everything but my guitar case and my notebooks began to get wet anyway. I made sure to protect those with my life. Anyway I’ve been out here through worse rain storms, and I was no stranger to getting my feathers and fur a little muddy. I’ll dry out when the sun came back out again… whenever that might be.

The early end to my lunchtime show, and the cancelling of my dinner show, gave me plenty of time to work on that new song though. I got it down pretty good into something I can work with. Got a tentative title too - Feed the Demon. It took me a few torn pages and a lot of pencil sharpening to get it where it is, but I think the sacrifice is certainly worth it.

Trapped in a curse, the chains pulling me down.

I struggle for air, as I bend towards the crown.

The beast then stares down, his grin piercing my gaze.

His terrible voice, sets my soul ablaze.

I try and resist, I push my paws up and scream.

Will nothing wake me, from this terrible dream?

His craving for more, leaves me broken and weak,

With no hope to resist, I give in with a shriek.

Feed the Demon, he craves more by the hour.

Feed the Demon, give in to his power.

Feed the Demon, there’s no hope to survive.

Feed the Demon, what’s it mean to be alive?

Still a little rough work in progress, but at the same time it’s coming along nicely. I’ll fancy up the chords as I go along, add some 9ths or something to give it a little more flair. The second verse will be a little more upbeat as the chords do add a little lighter tone to the lyrics. Maybe I could somehow pushing back against the Demon and take back control? If only I could find a way of doing that in real life - find some way that I wouldn’t have to feed my own demons. Doubt I can wait for that revelation before I finish up the song though. I’ll think of something. Let me sleep on it and hope my wet shivers don’t keep me up all night.

April 19th, 1993

Well, after tormenting me for a few days, and starting to get a little worse, my cough finally relaxed a bit yesterday. I made the decision and gave my contact at the Record Company a call from a payphone, seeing if he was free for a little audition of my new material. I hated making that call with every fiber of my being, but I had little choice. I was down to the last bit of spending money I had. I only had enough left to rent a cheap hotel room for one night and scrounge up some thrift store clothes, thankfully finding something that wasn’t too tacky or tattered. A pair of torn jeans, a thick belt, and an old Judas Priest T-shirt should work well enough to give off the appearance my music deserved.

A shower was one of the best things I could wish for as that mostly warm water cascaded down my feathers and fur, washing away weeks of dirt and grime from deep within them. I think I stayed in the shower an entire hour just savoring the warmth and the steam all around me, and then stayed in the bathroom for another hour as I brushed out my feathers and fur, treating it almost as a vacation rather than just a cheap motel stay. I didn’t quite trust the bed to be honest as it looked a little grimy, and I didn’t really want to lay on it at all, much less sleep on it. But, after I spent a little thinking about it, I figured that it was no dirtier than my spot in the park.

I started by sitting on the edge of the bed, restringing my guitar with the strings I’d bought with my actual last bit of my money, before cautiously sliding back onto it more and more while I played over my material to break the strings in. I felt good about what I had to offer, and I could take at least a little solace in the fact that my performance would be what I wanted the following day. What might happen to my songs afterwards if they caught his interest... that would be in God’s paws I suppose.

April 20th, 1993

Despite my reservations, I slept rather nicely on the bed once I finally fell asleep. It was a nice change from that hard ground that I had been sleeping on. I woke up a little sore actually, probably from being too comfortable, but a few stretches worked the kinks out well enough. Another soaking shower, another set of brushing through my feathers and fur, and one last play through over all my songs left me ready to go for my appointment. I packed up the guitar, checked out of the motel, and made my way towards that large corporate building near the center of town.

I could feel my tail twitching nervously as I strolled inside the rather opulent building, taking a look around and seeing nothing but fancy statues and water features everywhere I looked. Gold records lined the walls. Instruments, costumes, and other musical artifacts were scattered around everywhere in glass display boxes. The longer I stayed in that large lobby, the more I started to feel a little anger bubble up inside of me though. This was exactly what I hated about the music industry. It wasn’t about the music - it was about everything else.

Not once did I hear any real music playing inside the lobby. Not once did I actually HEAR any of the art people had created that financed and built this place. As I killed some time and looked around, I barely saw any real indication of anyone’s actual song writing process. There was only one small scrap of paper with song lyrics and chords on it, and TONS of finished albums with their colorful covers all over the place. But could I hear what was on them? Nope. And this was in the heart of the beast - inside the record company itself. This was the place where all the magic was sourced and put into motion. All they had on display were a few pretty shells of albums and some awards for music I couldn’t hear. They didn’t even have the nerve to have MTV on any of the TVs, instead going with some cable news channel plastered to all of them at once.

I tried not to let it put me in a bad mood as I sat on down and tried to focus, turning my gaze at the non-musical things instead. It was hard not to be amazed at the level of detail that was all around me. The glitz, the glamor, the shine, and the richness of it all, everything coming from a few chords strummed from a guitar. It was amazing to think that there was so much money floating around in the music business, and that this building was just a tiny part. I couldn’t help but think that I could’ve had a part of that life, and I still could have that life honestly. To be rich and famous, to have a mansion, fast cars, hot chicks... there was certainly still a draw to it as much as I tried to hate it. I knew I had the power, and I knew my talents were good enough.

As much as I tried to be okay with it, I knew that living in shitty apartments or inside a park would soon be the death of me. But, at the same time, walking into the heart of a music business and not hearing any music made me grit my beak and drum my fingers on my guitar case, constantly reminding myself that I shouldn’t be coerced into something like that. They’d care less about my music and me than making a profit - that’s why they had all this to begin with. Oh how ironic it was that I was sitting in here trying to sell them some of my songs… to feed the demon.

I fought hard not to think about it yet again - at how I was becoming a part of something I despised whether I wanted to or not. Thankfully I didn’t have much time to stew as I was finally called up to the office, only a half hour late going by the huge clock over the reception desk. I let out a strong string of coughs just to clear my throat and chest as I stepped into the elevator, enjoying the small ride up and following the semi-remembered path towards that familiar office door. With a firm knock to it, and with a loud booming voice returning from the other side, I pushed my way in and gave a friendly wave to the large (in multiple directions) rat sitting behind the desk.

“Hey there Max!” the older rodent said back with a smile, standing up and lumbering over towards me with an outstretched paw. I reluctantly took it in my own and gave it a shake, watching the rotund but well-dressed rodent smile back at me with just a little twitch of his whiskers. “Heard you’ve been working on some stuff for me. Well, I’m eager to hear it,” he continued with a friendly, but deep down forced smile.

“Hey,” I said back with little enthusiasm myself as I pulled my paw away and brought it over towards my guitar case. “Well, I’m eager to play for you,” I added with a little more heartfelt feeling behind it, not having to lie about that part. I was always eager to play, even if it was for a literal demon.

He smiled and nodded for a moment before he said, “Well, I’ll let you get to it then!” With that out of the way he made his way back to his desk to grab a seat. He pulled out a tape recorder as well as a fresh pad of paper, getting ready to listen in and take notes. I got myself situated on the large couch in his spacious office, taking a quick look around to see yet another room filled with awards and gold records. ‘At least there would be music in here soon’ I thought to myself, strumming a few chords to get myself set and comfortable. With a little nod back at him, I watched him hit the record button, and with a deep breath I began to play.

For the most part I didn’t even look at him. When I stared out at the wall in front of me instead I could imagine anyone I wanted to listen in. An audience of 40,000 people cheering me on, a small grouping of people surrounding me in the park, or just nobody. Either way it made things far more enjoyable than having to look at the listening rat. I went from song to song, only pausing for a moment between them, before finally strumming the last set of chords for the last song. With that note ringing out, I finally turned myself towards the rodent, seeing him listening intently while he shot me a little nod.

He reached on over to click the tape recorder off, placing down his pencil and just staring back at me for a moment while I stared back at him. I wasn’t about to break the silence, so I let him speak first as he slowly said, “Not a bad set of songs I must say. A few in there that I think I could work with.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said with a soft sigh. The rush of playing was still trickling out of my veins, and plopping me back down into the cold reality of what I was actually doing. Although, hearing that he liked them, even though I thought he was an evil man, still made my heart flutter just a bit.

“I’m willing to take them all as a set just in case though, like I’ve done before,” he continued with a small smile growing over his face. “You never know what could be a hit in this business.”

“That’s fine,” I added, feeling another little cough sputter out through my throat. Luckily my body had behaved itself during most of my performance, but now that I was done I could feel the need to cough starting to build up again as I tried to choke a few more back.

“Since we’re going with the freelance rate and not a collaborator rate, and seeing as you’re not in any songwriting union or anything, I can offer you what I did before. $1000 for the set.”

I half knew that was coming, but the other half of me was still furious after being reminded of all the glitz and glamor downstairs. I gave off a heavy almost spitting squawk at that number as I leaned forwards on the couch, holding my guitar tightly as I said, “You’ve got to be able to do better than $1000. I just gave you a whole album’s worth of material.”

The rat slowly shook his head as he drummed his fingers against the desk, giving off a soft sigh while he stated back, “There are a few possibilities, but that’s as far as I can wager. It takes time, resources, and the right fit to make a song really work. Not to mention studio time for mixing, mastering, arranging, practicing… What you brought me are good starts, but they’re far from finished songs.”

“I think they’re most of the way finished,” I said back with a little grumble. “Sure, they could use a full band treatment, but get a few guys together, let them figure out the parts, maybe add a little flair or two, and they’re good to go.”

The rodent just gave off a small chuckle in return as he shook his head one more time, taking a deep breath before continuing, “I wish I could have your optimism, but that’s just not how it works, kid. Still, this kind of stuff is pretty hot right now. Label’s on me to push out as much as I can. I can do $1,200 for you, a little raise since last time, but that’s just because I like you and you’ve helped me out before.”

“I’ve helped you out a bunch,” I almost shouted back, although feeling another cough ringing through my system for the effort. “How many hit songs came from my ideas? And how many deeper album cuts have you used? Plenty! Far more than $1,200 worth!”

The rodent didn’t have much to come back at me with that as he knew it was true, but nevertheless his gaze stayed fixed and focused on me, keeping his calm as he came back with, “Be that as it may, I just can’t risk any more of my own money than $1,250. It’s my own money you know, not even the companies. The company doesn’t like this sort of freelancing thing. I’m taking the risk here. Perhaps none of these songs will be a hit, or even usable. The music business is a fickle thing, and maybe tastes will change tomorrow. Maybe everyone will go back to listening to classical music or some shit. People thought Disco would go on forever, but look at what happened to that. This grunge thing could be just a passing fad once everyone wakes up and realizes they don’t like being sad and depressed the whole time.”

I gave him as strong of a glare as my eagle ancestors could pull off, trying to bury myself deep into his soul. But that was my mistake - he didn’t have a soul to bury into. Eventually I softened up just a bit as I spat back out, “You don’t know the first thing about music.”

Without even missing a beat the rat gave me a small glare back as he continued, “You don’t know the first thing about business. So, do you want your $1,250 or not? I’m not going to offer it again. You’re lucky I still even let you come in here after you weaseled your way out of your own recording contract. I still have people mad at me for that I hope you know! I’m still working in favors to make up for you storming out of that tour planning meeting.”

I was about to say something back, something that may have gotten me kicked out of the place and probably banned for life, but before I could, I felt something catch in my throat. As I struggled to get a breath in, I felt a long surge of coughs start to pass through me. It was a bad one, with the flurry of coughs making me put my guitar down and bend over the couch edge to try and get it all out. It took me a good thirty seconds before I got a real good breath in, and even after that I still felt a few aftershocks bubble up inside of me as my throat and chest tried to clear themselves enough to keep on living. For the first time ever I could taste blood in the back of my mouth as it ran up over my taste buds. I held my beak closed and swallowed it back down though, not wanting to make a mess on the rodent’s pristine and expensive carpet. He’d probably make me pay for that too if I did.

As I worked to catch my breath, I did my best to avoid the rodent’s gaze, but eventually I was forced to turn my eyes towards him. He looked concerned, but at the same time didn’t seem like he wanted to approach me for fear of catching whatever I had. The coughing fit left me a little less antagonistic than I had been just a moment earlier though. Feeling the rodent’s almost sorry eyes staring back at me left me feeling a little embarrassed and weak. I did my best to straighten back up and give a fresh fluff out to my feathers, trying to look as normal as I could after recovering from that attack. With a heavy sigh, and without any more arguing, I slowly said, “I’ll take the $1,250.”

“I’ll make it $1,300,” he came back with a second later. “Go see a doctor or something…”

With that there was just a little paperwork to sign and go through, as well as an official transfer of notes and documents that I’d brought with me about the songs. That was all it took before I was able to leave with a check in my paw. I think he was happy to get me out of there, even if his secretary took care of most of the rest of it all. I wasn’t rich, far from it, but it was something I could work with, and something is better than nothing. It would allow me to leave my spot in the park, at least for a bit, and have a nice roof over my head for a few months. Hopefully in that time I could write some more material and start the process all over again. Hopefully I could finally see a doctor and take care of this damn cough too. As much as I felt a bad taste in my mouth, both from the blood and from the rodent’s presence, I did my best to try and look forwards with a little bit of hope and eagerness. It was really all I had left.

God seemed to think it was funny to fuck with me though. I had another small coughing attack as I was walking away from that building, but just after I caught my breath, I heard a convertible pass by, blasting one of the songs I’d written nice and loud. I knew it right away, even from the second or so of music I got to hear, and that at least put a smile on my beak for a moment. These songs that I’d just given up for next to nothing would hopefully end up just like that. At least I could hope. Hearing them blasted out loud, with people bobbing their heads to them, would almost make it worth having to go through the beast itself to make it happen. My name might not be anywhere on the packaging, but it would be forever entrenched in the hearts of the songs. That was something to live for, and that was something to die for.

April 29th, 1993

Doctors are almost as bad as people in the music industry, but that’s another whole story in itself. Three different trips, and a whole bunch of tests later, they only think that I MAY have tuberculosis. They gave me a few of the cheapest pills they had for it, and told me to come get more right after I finished what I was taking, but there’s no way I could afford that. I almost jumped right out of my pants when I saw that first pharmacy bill come up. Even still, the drugs didn’t help all that much. They helped clear up my cough a little bit, for a short time, but it wasn’t anything worth the price. I’d rather have another month of rent than a slightly less severe cough any day.

Speaking of, I did manage to find myself a little apartment to rent for a bit. It’s not much, basically a large closet with a bed, but it’s not bad if you don’t mind roaches and asbestos. I don’t get wet when it rains though, so that’s a plus! The only leak is on the other side of the room away from the bed, and the landlord was nice enough to leave a bucket there to catch the water when it dripped down. So… progress!

Still, I can only complain so much. I haven’t had time to write much down as I moved everything from my park spot to my new place, while in the meantime making trips to the doctor. Thankfully, things have slowed down a little bit recently, and I’ve gotten some time to start playing regularly once again. The neighbors don’t seem to mind me playing my guitar at all hours of the day either. They might be a little strung out on whatever they’re taking, but as long as they don’t bother me, I’m fine with it. I’ve got plenty inspiration for new material here, and I’ve already started work on a few new songs. I have about 4 months to finish them up before I’m back to being homeless, that is unless my daily tips pick up a little bit. I’ve been scoping out a few areas here and there, but I don’t have any good venue change planned yet. Maybe all I need is a change of scenery, to get some fresh people curious and interested. Maybe I can even find someone willing to sign me to a proper record deal without all the big label hype, that’ll let me do what I want and how I want to do it. Yeah, and maybe I can be the first gryphon to walk on the moon too...

It’d certainly be better if my cough stopped interrupting my performances though. Although the meds did help my cough in general, it sort of spread it out more to include interrupting my singing - which is another reason I didn’t go back to pick up the pill refill. I’ve had to do more and more instrumental stuff, or get the crowd to help sing along when I can, just to save my voice. I’m sure once this coughing thing passes things will get a bit better. Just gotta stick it out until then.

I did give a thought to my last group of songs the other day, kind of wondering what might be happening with them. What band might take them up, how they’ll change and perform them, whether they’ll be hit songs or neat little deep tracks. I try to think only the good when I’m thinking of my own stuff. Sometimes I even imagine myself being able to play them instead of the other band, but those thoughts are usually rather fleeting. I don’t need a whole industry telling me what to do and how to do it. I’ve got myself, my guitar, and however much time I have left on Earth to make sure I leave something good behind. That’s all I could ask for, and I’m going to make every last second of it count.

May 5th, 1993

Today is not a good day. It hasn’t been good for a few days now, as whatever I have is getting worse. My fingers are shaking just trying to write this. I’m amazed my mind can stay focused enough to make all the words and letters make sense as my fever is really getting up there. I’m left sprawled out on my bed, and I can’t really move more than I need to. My spine hurts, my head hurts, my lungs hurt, my chest hurts… basically everything hurts. I know I should get up and make my way to some kind of doctor, or just go to the hospital, but I’m pushing it off until the completely last moment. I have to save everything I can, especially if I can’t get out and perform, or even write any new music.

This totally blows, but there isn’t much I can do about it. I’ll give it one more day - one more day for my body to fight off whatever, and if I don’t start feeling better, I’ll head off to wherever I can get to. “Just One More Day” sounds like a good song title too… Gotta make the best of a crappy situation and think of some song lyrics. Anyway, I have to get some rest if I want any hope of fighting this off. If I don’t wake up then… well… I want my tombstone to say, “He followed his own path, and fought for what he believed in.” Is that too dramatic? Eh, maybe. Tone it down a bit Mr. Coroner, or whoever’s in charge of tombstone inscriptions over there, but make sure it still sounds good! Remember that you’re writing for a musician, so it has to have a nice flow.

Ugh, that’s all I can write for today - my paw is killing me, and I can barely focus anymore.