Riding down the highway, '66 or maybe later, can't remember where I'm going to but it doesn't really matter when the wind that flows across my face scatters thought into the atmosphere, I'm here and now, that's good enough for me.

There are mountains in the mirror with black eyes that stare quite candidly,
riding still and still 'til thoughtfully, I catch the looks they send to me, a reading through the script, a page ripped off from some humanity and on the desert highway no one feels the sand beneath their feet,
I wondered why it's always cool when heat drips from my atlas brow,
and now I know.

Burnt before the noonday Sun where scriptures watch the pale inks run and thin priests gathered in their cloaks, in silence then where no one speaks, still cool as sweat drips down along the edges of a well-worn song, the night comes swiftly, rushing on like rivers that have died and gone and I ride the highway '66 or maybe it's still later,
who can tell.