I seen you walking from the drug-happy streets of Albany to the
identity-confused streets of Boston, where all anyone talked about
was craft beers and “homeless” hipsters out for gags walked the
streets of Harvard square bumming cigarettes off of the other rich
shitheads. To Tokyo, Holy Tokyo! Where as a kid you stood wide-eyed
at the foot of a life sized Gundam, and walked the electric streets
of Akihabara where people cosplay spiritually and every store sold
toys on the first floor and porn on the last, and I seen that look on
your face when you finally found the fabled Japanese beer vending
machine sitting angelically beside another filled with thongs. But
the cool beer couldn't save you from a summer heat so bad if you
weren't in heaven you'd have figured you were in hell. I seen you
walking wordlessly down those streets, and I seen you with your
hangman head hanging all the way back home to your small town
streets, quiet in the night, quiet but for the voices set there on
the gravestones. Well, your room doesn't fit you right no more and
your fingers sure can't seem to make your six-string sing no more;
you want to play Dick Dale but are sounding like Muddy Waters which,
okay isn't so bad, but the sun 's not particularly keen on shining
through your window at the moment. So you leave and meet up with the
guys at the local dive down the road for a couple pints and when
they're ready to hit up the next hole they ask where you want to go,
but you haven't thought about that yet. You never do, ya know. I seen
you walk out that bar's door and the moon sits above you like a hole
in the sky, screaming. The wind whipping your ears is its
carried cry through the endless depths of eventide.