I know back roads and bonfires. I know pine trees and rivers. I know parking lots and cigarettes. I know trailers and trailblazers.
The day I was born I was wrapped in dust, it coated my skin and made me sneeze. I was laid down on a bed of dust and my nose began to bleed, it hasn't stopped.
In school we'd throw a tennis ball against a wall, we'd run through the field, we didn't have swings, we didn't have a soccer ball. We read from dusty books, we inhaled the words and dust alike.
In high school we drove fast down back roads. We drank beer and started a fire. We swam in the rivers and smoked doobies on the rocks. These are the things I know. I know this small town, I know the people in it, I know the trees and I know the back roads. I don't know heartbreak. I don't know alcoholism. I don't know anything that is not covered in dust, I don't know anything beyond this valley.