Can You Really See Everything?

After seeing You Can See Everything twice in the past week, I am still thinking about what Nathan Fielder and Lance Oppenheim’s (2026) documentary allows us to know about Elizabeth Holmes, and what it encourages us to believe about Fielder himself. The film brings us close to its subjects, but that closeness raises as many questions as it answers.

One question, in particular, stayed with me: “What does it mean to know?” This question is central to the field of epistemology, the philosophy of knowledge; I was originally drawn to this discipline during my dissertation research years. I became interested in how we arrive at what we call knowledge through observation, experience, and the accounts of others. Those sources seem especially worth examining when considering a film about someone we have watched, heard about, and discussed for years.

Many viewers will arrive at the theater, as I did, already familiar with Holmes’s story. Alex Gibney’s (2019) documentary, The Inventor: Out for Blood in Silicon Valley, examined her and her company, Theranos. That same year, ABC News launched The Dropout, a podcast hosted by Rebecca Jarvis. Its reporting became the basis for Hulu’s 2022 miniseries of the same name, with Amanda Seyfried playing Holmes (ABC News, 2022).

In You Can See Everything, we immediately recognize Holmes’s voice, stare, presence, and carefully maintained image. Interviews, documentary footage, and scripted scenes may blend together in our memory. We might feel that we know her without remembering exactly how that familiarity developed.

Sorting out those sources is part of evaluating what we believe about her. So is recognizing when her account of herself conflicts with documented facts.

At one point, Holmes insists that she has never lied. Even when Fielder presses her about ordinary little fabrications, she maintains her position (Ford, 2026). This is a truly extraordinary assertion from someone convicted of one count of conspiracy to defraud investors and three counts of wire fraud.

Let’s first consider some facts. The evidence presented at her trial established repeated, knowing falsehoods about Theranos’s technology, finances, and business relationships. Holmes misrepresented what its blood-testing machines could do while knowing their limitations. She supplied misleading financial projections and falsely described the company’s work with the military. These deceptions helped persuade investors to part with their money (U.S. Attorney’s Office, Northern District of California, 2022).

The consequences extended beyond investors. Through its partnership with Walgreens, Theranos offered blood collection and testing services at stores in Arizona. Patients received inaccurate results about their health, creating the potential for needless fear, false reassurance, and misguided medical decisions. Arizona’s attorney general alleged that the company misrepresented its testing methods, accuracy, and reliability (Arizona Attorney General’s Office, 2017). Walgreens (2016) ended the partnership, closing all 40 Arizona testing centers and citing the voiding of test results.

Holmes was convicted of defrauding investors though acquitted of the patient-related fraud charges (U.S. Attorney’s Office, Northern District of California, n.d.). As the film brought us closer to her, however, I continued to remain aware of the patients who trusted Theranos with their health.

That history provides essential context for the film’s intimate portrait. The documentary’s first half was filmed in spring 2023, during the weeks immediately before Holmes entered prison. She and her partner, Billy Evans, welcomed the filmmakers into their home and daily lives. Fielder’s growing involvement with them becomes an integral part of the story (Fielder & Oppenheim, 2026).

That access promised a fuller understanding of Holmes. It also gave her an opportunity to influence how we see her. Watching someone at home can feel like getting behind a public image, but a camera does not stop people from managing that image.

Erving Goffman’s (1959) observations may help explain what we are witnessing. In The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, he examined how people shape the impressions others form of them. We choose what to reveal, how to behave, and which parts of ourselves to emphasize for a particular audience.

This is commonly called impression management. An accessible discussion in Media Studies 101 explains how people use speech, gestures, appearance, and other choices to influence how others perceive them. These efforts can be deliberate or so familiar that we barely notice them (Media Texthack Team, 2014). Someone whose reputation has collapsed, as Holmes’s has, has a strong reason to seek a different public image.

Her openness deserves scrutiny in that light. Welcoming cameras, sharing family life, and displaying vulnerability could all be calculated image management techniques. The invitation to “see everything” may encourage us to lower our guard. We may assume that someone revealing so much must have nothing to hide.

At several points Holmes cries, and her tears deserve attention as well. They may express genuine distress. They may also encourage us to see her as misunderstood or deserving of another chance. Isn’t it possible that genuine emotion and strategic self-presentation can coexist?

Does feeling sorry for someone make their explanation more compelling? It certainly might. Whether it makes that explanation more credible is a separate question.

Anthropology offers another useful concept for considering the Holmes-Fielder relationship: “going native.” Traditionally, the phrase describes the risk of becoming so involved with the people being studied that the researcher loses critical distance. Gale (2010), writing about her own fieldwork, describes the challenge of participating closely while remaining focused on the purpose of her research.

Her account also shows why reflection matters throughout that process. She describes using a research diary to examine her experiences and return to the work of analysis. Closeness can deepen understanding but, from an academic perspective, researchers must also consider how participation changes their responses and assumptions (Gale, 2010).

That raises a question about Fielder: As Holmes becomes more and more familiar to him, does her account become more believable? Does his attachment to her begin to outweigh his skepticism?

The second half, filmed two years later in 2025, brings Seyfried into the story. In an extension of her miniseries role, she plays Holmes in recreations of conversations Fielder remembers. She also appears as herself, watching footage and discussing Holmes with him. We move back and forth between an actress performing a role and a person apparently speaking her own mind (Fielder & Oppenheim, 2026).

An episode of NPR’s Pop Culture Happy Hour brought another possibility into focus for me. Host Linda Holmes and critic Bob Mondello questioned whether some of these apparently spontaneous conversations might themselves be scripted. Their discussion sharpened my uncertainty about how to interpret these scenes (Holmes, 2026).

The recreations announce themselves as performances. Their conversations invite us to accept them as spontaneous. But were those exchanges unrehearsed? Or were they scripted, prompted, or shaped around ideas Seyfried and Fielder had already discussed?

Seyfried seems like someone we can trust to ask the questions we would ask. She is involved enough to understand Fielder’s experience but distant enough to challenge him. Her doubts may reassure us that someone within the film is keeping a clear head.

Yet that reassurance deserves scrutiny, too. Could she and Fielder have been working together to create the impression that she is independently questioning him? Is her apparent skepticism another way of guiding our response? I have no evidence of such an arrangement, but a film so concerned with appearances logically invites the question.

If her challenges were planned, we might be watching a carefully constructed image of Fielder as a man whose feelings have compromised his judgment. If spontaneous, they might capture someone recognizing that problem as it unfolds. The conclusions we draw could be similar, while our reasons for trusting them would differ.

At the end of the film, when Seyfried challenges Fielder about his feelings and judgment, the question of objectivity becomes impossible to avoid. Has he become too emotionally attached to assess Holmes clearly? Is he giving her claims consideration they have not earned because he wants to believe in her? Has he gone native?

I even left the theater wondering whether Nathan had fallen in love with Elizabeth.

But I also wondered how deliberately the film had led me to that very question. Had I recognized something in his behavior, or had Fielder and Seyfried helped construct that interpretation?

Goffman’s ideas apply to everyone on screen. Holmes presents herself to Fielder. Fielder and Seyfried present their encounters to us. Her apparent candor deserves the same scrutiny as his apparent confusion and Holmes’s apparent openness.

We do not have to resolve every question about the filmmaking to recognize the evidence of Holmes’s fraud. Assessing Fielder’s relationship with her is harder. We see it through a film he helped make.

Understanding people requires empathy. Deciding whether to believe them requires evidence and a willingness to question our own attachments. By the end, I was asking whether Fielder had maintained that distinction, and whether the film had helped me maintain it myself.

I left the theater with plenty of questions. I suspect you did too.

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References

ABC News. (2022, August 5). New “The Dropout” podcast episode features Hulu series creator and star.

Arizona Attorney General’s Office. (2017). 2017 annual report.

Fielder, N., & Oppenheim, L. (Directors). (2026). You can see everything [Film]. A24.

Ford, R. (2026, October 16). You can know everything about You Can See Everything (spoilers ahead!) Vanity Fair.

Gale, N. K. (2010). The embodied ethnographer: Journeys in a health care subculture. International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 9(2), 206–223. https://doi.org/10.1177/160940691000900206

Gibney, A. (Director). (2019). The inventor: Out for blood in Silicon Valley [Film]. HBO Documentary Films; Jigsaw Productions.

Goffman, E. (1959). The presentation of self in everyday life. Doubleday.

Holmes, L. (Host). (2026, October 16). You can see everything [Audio podcast episode]. In Pop culture happy hour. NPR. Episode · Transcript

Media Texthack Team. (2014). Impressions management. In Media studies 101. BCcampus. https://opentextbc.ca/mediastudies101/chapter/impressions-management/

U.S. Attorney’s Office, Northern District of California. (n.d.). U.S. v. Elizabeth Holmes, et al. U.S. Department of Justice.

U.S. Attorney’s Office, Northern District of California. (2022, January 4). Theranos founder Elizabeth Holmes found guilty of investor fraud. U.S. Department of Justice.

Walgreens. (2016, June 12).Walgreens terminates relationship with Theranos; Will be closing operations at all 40 Theranos Wellness Centers in Arizona.

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What is Leadership?

I frequently Zoom with a friend, CJ, on the East Coast. Our conversations are always stimulating, never boring. We both graduated from the same small-town Midwestern high school back in the 60s but, interestingly, it is only in the past couple of years that our relationship has deepened. Last year, during my trip back to rural Northern Wisconsin for our sixtieth-class reunion, she was one of just a couple individuals with whom I was eagerly anticipating some one-on-one time.

We are both academics, but because we spent almost six decades leading quite different lives, with only infrequent contact, we continue to learn more about each other with every interaction. During our last call, I mentioned that throughout most of my professional life I had occupied leadership positions. She hesitated, then interrupted with a simple but provocative question: “What is leadership?”

(For her own reasons, she’d been ruminating on this question for a while, and was interested in my take.)

I do not recall precisely how I answered. That probably means my response was not especially coherent. You might expect someone who spent decades in higher education administration, earned a doctorate in the field, worked as an academic dean, and has written extensively about leadership in these pages to have a polished definition ready for immediate deployment. I did not; I mostly rambled.

Since then, the question has stayed with me. So I’m here to wander around the topic yet again and to report that with more than twenty years of writing here in Musings, all signs seem to point, consistently, toward the same idea: leadership begins with trust.

A title may give someone authority to make decisions, approve budgets, evaluate employees, or call a staff meeting. It does not guarantee, however, that anyone will have trust in the person exercising that authority. Positional power can produce compliance, at least for a while, but compliance and followership are not the same thing.

When I first became an interim academic dean, I had never been a dean, department chair, or even a full-time faculty member. At my first divisional meeting, I told the story of my personal journey and shared the values I was bringing to the position. I believed that people needed to know the person asking for their confidence.

That experience helped convince me that authenticity is central to leadership. By authenticity, I do not mean turning every meeting into a confessional. I mean allowing people to see an alignment among one’s values, words, decisions, and behavior. That alignment is also how I understand integrity. It becomes most visible when remaining true to one’s values is inconvenient or risky. When words and actions match, people do not have to search constantly for hidden motives. A basis for trust has been established.

Leadership also depends upon listening. “Leaders,” so-called, often “listen” just long enough to formulate an answer or defend a decision. Genuine, active listening accepts that someone else may know something important, including something the leader would prefer not to hear. It communicates respect and makes an organization more intelligent. When people expect dismissal or retaliation, they remain silent, and the person naming a problem can become the problem.

Listening cannot necessarily tell a leader exactly what to do, however. My doctoral mentor, Thomas Schwandt, helped me approach the uncertainty that remains. He asked questions that slowed thinking down: What does this mean? Whose voices are absent? Given what we know, what should we do now? His questions taught me to examine both values and assumptions, mine and others, before acting. They also encouraged humility, since a sincere conviction can still be wrong.

Those habits shaped how I understood authority long before I became a college dean. Earlier, while I was working for the Oregon University System, one of our university presidents described my style as that of a “servant leader.” I had not consciously adopted the term, but I recognized myself in it. I had always believed that leadership was less about exercising power over people than using whatever authority I possessed on their behalf. I often told colleagues that whatever power came with my position amounted, in practice, to the power to persuade. The president had given a name to the way I was already trying to lead.

I have also always thought of myself as a consensus builder. That did not mean requiring unanimity or waiting until every objection disappeared. It meant bringing people into the process, finding common ground, and building enough shared ownership to move forward. Consensus was not an escape from leadership. It was one way of exercising it.

Together, these descriptions explain why I regard administration as a calling to service. A college exists to educate students and serve a larger public good. Administrators temporarily hold responsibility for a mission that will continue after they depart.

Service does not mean passivity, though, and listening does not eliminate the obligation to decide. Participation makes decisions more informed and legitimate, but responsibility cannot be distributed so broadly that no one remains accountable. Presidents must lead, boards must govern, and administrators must sometimes choose among competing interests.

A responsible leader invites the knowledge of those affected, communicates the reasons for change, makes the necessary judgment, and accepts accountability for what follows. Collaboration is not unanimous agreement, but neither is it a ceremonial conversation held after the real decision has already been made.

My recent writing about Lane Community College has tested these convictions from a different vantage point. As a retired administrator and community member, I have sometimes called for decisive action, including the resignation of a trustee and the nonrenewal of a presidential contract. That might appear inconsistent with my emphasis on collaboration, but listening is not leadership’s final act. A process that produces no accountability can become another form of avoidance.

All of this brings me back to CJ’s initial question. What is leadership, anyway? For me, leadership begins with trust, which grows when people experience a leader as authentic and know they are being heard. It means seeking consensus, encouraging collaboration, and bringing people together around a purpose they share. It also means acting when necessary and remaining accountable for the result.

Perhaps that university president had already supplied the shortest answer. Leadership is service. A title may identify who occupies the office, but it tells us little about whether leadership is occurring there. What matters is what a person does with the trust.

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Soundtrack Suggestion

He roller-coaster, he got early warning
He got muddy water, he one mojo filter
He say, “One and one and one is three”
Got to be good-looking, ‘cause he’s so hard to see

Come together
Right now
Over me

(“Come Together” — Beatles)

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My Own Clock

For most of my adult life, I believed I was a morning person. Whether I was working as a chemist in my twenties, attending graduate school in counseling in my thirties, teaching while completing my Ph.D. at Indiana University in my forties, or later serving as a college administrator, I was typically up and at ’em by 5:30 a.m. I assumed that was simply who I was: an early riser, a morning person. It has taken retirement to make me question whether the clock I lived by for so long was ever really my own.

As I look back, I recognize that my sleep pattern was among many rituals which remained remarkably consistent throughout my professional life. For example, I often stopped for breakfast on the way to work before arriving at an office that was mostly empty. How I valued that quiet first hour. The phone wasn’t ringing. Meetings hadn’t begun. No one was standing in the doorway with an urgent question. It gave me time to get oriented before the demands of the day took over.

I recall that during my years at IU, associate instructors could request the sections we wanted to teach. I always chose the 8:00 a.m. classes. Most of my graduate-student peers preferred something later, and undergraduates weren’t especially enthusiastic about early mornings either (an obvious understatement). That suited me just fine. I loved beginning the day before campus had fully awakened.

Then there was another idiosyncratic practice of mine. For years, on the left side of my desk, I kept a stack of papers. The issues demanding the most immediate attention were always on top. I continually shuffled them, working my way down as the day allowed. Those near the bottom sometimes waited for days or even weeks. More than once, a problem resolved itself before I ever reached it. (That strategy, in itself, continues to serve as a valuable personal and professional axiom: not every problem requires immediate action, and some require no action at all.) Like my early mornings, that stack became part of the architecture of my days.

Of course, there were occasional outside interruptions to my rhythms. Beginning in the late 1990s, an enlarged prostate led to increasingly problematic sleep. Four or five trips to the bathroom each night became routine. A TURP (the “roto-rooter” prostate surgery) procedure in 2011 helped enormously, but years of interrupted sleep had trained my body to wake repeatedly. Even after this medical issue improved, the habit of frequent awakenings lingered. But throughout it all, I remained an early riser.

Ultimately, retirement had its impact on my lifestyle. While there was no conscious decision to sleep in later, there simply was no longer a reason to get up before dawn. Without really intending it, I began getting up a little later. And then later.

Today I’m usually asleep by 10:00 and awake around 7:30, about two hours more sleep than during most of my working life. At age seventy-nine, I now sleep considerably more than I once did. That surprised me because I’d always heard that older adults need less sleep. Curious, I did a little reading and discovered the research isn’t nearly as settled as the popular wisdom suggests.

While I was at IU, one of my closest friends seemed to function quite well on four or five hours of sleep each night, but I always needed much more. We were both a little skeptical of the other’s sleeping habits. I couldn’t imagine getting by on so little sleep, and he probably thought I was a slacker. Looking back, I guess each of us believed our own rhythms to be the “normal” ones.

What has stayed with me, though, isn’t the research itself or the sleeping habits of others. Rather, different questions altogether poke through. If my body now prefers a schedule so unlike the one I had followed through most of my adult life, what’s changed? Has retirement simply given me permission to sleep more? Or had I spent decades assuming that my work schedule reflected my natural rhythm when, in fact, I had gradually adapted myself to the rhythms of the institutions where I worked?

For more than half a century, my life was organized around the schedules of schools, colleges, and universities. Over time, those rhythms became so familiar that I stopped noticing they belonged to the institutions where I worked. I experienced them as my own. I believed I was someone who naturally woke at 5:30 every morning. Maybe I was. Or maybe I had simply spent decades living by rhythms that were never entirely mine?

Interestingly, although I sleep longer now, I still keep a pile of papers on the left side of my desk. Today’s stack has little to do with budgets, personnel issues, or committee meetings, though. Instead, it contains notes for upcoming doctor appointments, insurance forms, and, at the moment, a draft of my will waiting to be finalized and signed.

I suppose that’s what retirement has given me. Not simply more time, but a different relationship to time. For most of my adult life, my days began because they had to. Today they begin when I’m ready. Whether that means I truly need more sleep or have finally been allowed to get the sleep I’ve always needed, I don’t know. But after all these years, I’m no longer quite so certain that I ever really understood my own clock.

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Soundtrack Suggestion

Time is on my side, yes it is
Time is on my side, yes it is

Now you all were saying that you want to be free
But you’ll come runnin’ back (I said you would baby)
You’ll come runnin’ back (like I told you so many times before)
You’ll come runnin’ back to me, yeah

Time is on my side, yes it is
Time is on my side, yes it is

(“Time Is On My Side” — Rolling Stones)

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The Observer is Always in the Story

On Memoir, Memory, and the Limits of Objectivity

Not long ago, I reviewed Lauren Kessler’s Everything Changes Everything, her memoir of walking the Camino Francés, the ancient 500-mile pilgrimage that begins in the south of France, crosses northern Spain, and concludes at Santiago de Compostela. Kessler undertook the journey after losing both her husband and her daughter within the span of eight months. My review was later published in the Eugene Weekly (still in existence after 44 years as an actual print newspaper!).

Now, about four months after the book’s publication, Kessler has posted an essay on her Substack titled “The Facts of Memory.” In it, she reflects on the challenges of writing a memoir, a genre that differs from the nonfiction books that established her reputation. As a journalist and nonfiction writer, she has spent her career pursuing facts, verifying accounts, and trying to get the story right. Memoir, however, asks something different of a writer.

The essay explores the uneasy relationship between memory and accuracy. Kessler describes the steps she took to check her recollections against documents, conversations, and other sources, while also acknowledging the unavoidable role of memory in shaping any personal narrative. Reading it, I was struck by her wrestling with questions that have occupied researchers, historians, and writers for a very long time. She invited readers to respond, and I found myself wanting to join the conversation. Here is what I wrote…

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Hi Lauren,

This essay resonated with me, though perhaps not in exactly the way you intended.

My academic training was in qualitative and interpretive research. For my doctoral dissertation, I spent several years studying the social world of a college fraternity, conducting interviews, reviewing documents, attending events, and attempting to understand how members made meaning of their experiences. Early in that work, I abandoned the idea that I could somehow stand outside the story as a detached observer. I brought my own history, assumptions, and experiences to the project, and the best I could do was acknowledge them and make them visible to readers.

Because of that background, I really loved reading this discussion of memoir and nonfiction. We both seem to agree that all accounts of human experience are filtered through the observer. Where you see a tension between memoir and nonfiction, though, I tend to see a continuum. Even the most conscientious reporter or researcher makes choices about what to notice, what to include, what to emphasize, and what meaning to draw from the material. Those choices are never entirely objective.

In fact, one of the things I noted in my review of Everything Changes Everything was that I experienced it not only as a memoir but almost as a form of ethnography. You were documenting a journey, certainly, but you were also observing and interpreting a social and emotional world. The subject happened to be grief rather than a culture or community, but the process, and result, felt surprisingly familiar.

Where I think your essay raises an important point is in distinguishing between subjectivity and memory. Subjectivity does not trouble me very much. Memory, well, is an entirely more complicated matter. Human beings reconstruct the past rather than retrieve it intact, and I understand why that creates discomfort for anyone whose professional life has been grounded in nonfiction reporting.

Still, as a reader, what I ultimately trusted in your book was not the impossibility of perfect recall but the honesty and integrity of the effort. Without even much caring, I imagined that you were doing exactly what you describe in your author’s note: consulting documents, checking memories, talking with others, and rendering events as faithfully as possible.

Perhaps that is why I was struck by this essay as sounding almost apologetic. To me, the power of your memoir lies not in overcoming subjectivity but in embracing it. The book succeeds because it offers a deeply observed and thoughtfully interpreted account of lived experience. I don’t see that as a weakness of memoir. I see it as one of its greatest strengths.

Thanks for giving us all something to think about!

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The Observer Effect

Can You Hear Me Now?

Here’s a rather timeless question: If a tree falls in a lonely forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? This issue has engaged philosophers for centuries and has given rise to considerable scholarly debate.

Lately I have begun to wonder whether the internet has produced a modern version of a similar philosophical problem, specifically with regard to blogging. If a person writes essays that remain virtually unread, does the blog really exist?

One might imagine that such a question could be addressed, at least somewhat marginally, with data. We live in the age of analytics, after all. Somewhere inside the mysterious machinery of the internet, numbers are quietly crunched: page views, visitor counts, geographic locations, and other tidy bits of data gradually accumulate in the background. Naturally, I occasionally check the available statistics here on Musings.

What I find here can best be described as modest evidence of human life. Sometimes one of my posts appears to have attracted three visitors. Two of those visits are almost certainly me, returning to see whether a typo escaped my notice before I published. The third might represent an actual reader. Or possibly a search engine robot conducting routine surveillance of the digital landscape.

But every now and then the analytics reveal something more mysterious. A recent visitor with an IP address from the Seychelles, for example. I try to imagine this person: someone on a small island in the Indian Ocean who has paused long enough to read a reflective essay about time, memory, or late-life philosophy written by a retired higher-ed guy in Oregon. It is a pleasant thought. Unfortunately, of course, it is most likely a bot.

These observations suggest that the deeper philosophical issue may lie elsewhere. René Descartes famously attempted to anchor human existence in a single undeniable truth: Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am. The act of thinking itself confirmed the existence of the thinker.

Modern physics introduces yet another wrinkle. In quantum mechanics, the Uncertainty Principle suggests that the act of observation influences what is being observed. At the smallest scales of reality, the observer and the observed become entangled in curious ways. The observer becomes part of the phenomenon.

All of this raises an unsettling possibility for bloggers: perhaps a post does not fully exist until someone reads it.

For the modern blogger, then, a similar formulation might present itself: Scribo, ergo sum. I write, therefore I am.

But writing on the internet introduces a complication Descartes never had to consider. Descartes lived in an era when publishing assumed an audience. In our era, it is entirely possible to write something, place it carefully on a beautifully designed website — yes, I am talking about TechnoMonk’s Musings here — and discover that the universe has responded with a deafening silence.

This raises a subtle question. If writing is placed before the world but no one encounters it, what exactly has occurred? Is the blog an act of communication, or merely a private journal that just happens to possess a URL?

Perhaps the older philosophical puzzle offers a clue. A tree falling in the forest still disturbs the air, shakes the ground, and settles into the soil whether anyone happens to be standing nearby to hear the sound. The event takes place regardless of observation.

So let’s consider this: Writing may work much the same way. Thoughts take shape. Words accumulate. A small archive of a life gradually forms, essay by essay. Whether the audience is large, small, or occasionally located in the Seychelles may be only an incidental matter.

Descartes had certainty: Cogito, ergo sum.

I think, therefore I am.

Physicists have uncertainty; and so do I. Scribo, ergo sum.

I write, therefore I might be?

Whether anyone can hear me now is another question entirely.

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Soundtrack Suggestion

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone
I can see all obstacles in my way
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind

It's gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-shiny day
It's gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-shiny day

I think I can make it now, the pain is gone
All of the bad feelings have disappeared
Here is the rainbow I've been prayin' for

It's gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-shiny day

(“I Can See Clearly Now” — Johnny Nash)

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