Up all night before cigarettes were a danger,
huffing and puffing up adventure. I travel the
winding roads of memory. Full of a melancholy
warmth that daydreams emit. The sun is
shining somewhere, here it's just a shadow.
Angst busily building a drama within. At night
we drive down the road faster... faster, the
street lights pass like a pulse in my peripheral.
Cruising the town down dark streets later and
later till the sun crept into the picture. I hear
open nights with a morning most only sleep
through. Sounds stir up the past as dreams
beat in the rhythm. Sleeping should mean an
end to the day, while it really confirms.
Boredom is the only freedom that I can believe
in. The sun shines upon beaches as dry as my
eyes while it's the distance between days that's
so hard to find. Brothers in arms swimming
through the deadness. It's no mystery where
the night went.
This takes me back. Not to something I've
heard before, but something I've felt. I can
remember the freedom of my first John Hughes
movie and the wonder and mystery that David
Lynch created in my mind. All the books and
images that made the darkness so inviting.
I remember the feeling of a naive abandon
that was not always encased in a weekend.
Living out an exciting drama yet never really
doing anything at all. I present a soundtrack
that I sunk into reliving some of my youth. In
reviewing a band I found myself reviewing my
life. Not to grade or regret. Just seeing some
of it again as my eyes were closed, and my
ears were engrossed in Deceased Priest.