Fresh into town away from all that stood to be everyday burdens that weighed me down so many times, but out here I can forget all the petty little things that seemed like the end of the world as I awoke each morning with that unbearable knowledge of such hated events bound to occur in the next twelve hours. Take my hand into the west where the air is clean and the ground is fresh, among everything we are all that’s left, swallow high in the fading west. There’s a broken bus just up ahead parked in the shade of a better promise calling out for a buyer that will someday regret the purchase of a lie, but there she waits faithfully growing old in the shade of the sun. Take my wheel into the west where a faster speed defeats the rest, and dance and sing before the best into the night the moon is crest and mountains hide the fading west.
November 8, 1997