We are soft souls blown ‘round with everything, we are sifted sands and treated grasses. We plug ourselves into cars and wait for destinations; And still: Violins ******* make people cry (the tremolo stings your spine into shivers)
And that gives me something you might call hope for my age-bracket. This has been somewhat of a spiritual undertaking for me. The roads of the interstate carry me out of my reality and into another consciousness. Extended driving (the heavy tremolando). I'm blue-glassed eyes and I am ultraviolet light and I open the car window to exhale a lung of smoke into the dustbowl. Well, hell; It's California.