(just Sleep, The Beauty Of This Place Will Seep Into Your Very Blood; I'll See That You Aren't Woken Up) How Can I Find My Way Out? I Dug This Hole All By Myself With "no More Poems On Napkins" And "I Left The Notebook On Its Shelf"; And It's Slowed To Just A Trickle Now But I Wish That It Was Pouring Out Because There's So Much Here To Write About. And All The Leaves Are Turning Brown; They're Falling From Their Branches And Landing At My Feet, But I Can Hardly Make A Sound, A Word Of Adoration, For What's Surrounding Me. (make It Up From Here, But I Can't Make It Up From Here, So I Won't Wake You Up, My Dear) And I Just Want To Write With Everything Inside.