All roads lead to them you say
but the problem is they =/= you
why don’t you just admit it
live in it
but I’m done with it
this is my life: sleep to the south, noise to the north
and in between guitars
and the little bits I can still remember of my old life before the salt water took me.
And you don’t like it because they are American like you. Close, so close, teetering on the brink compared to the thousand miles from me
But a million miles or a different layer of the membrane universe from your world.
Under your nose and you can’t smell it, but I have the same blood as them.
And in the winter I wrote a script of my own, illuminating the intertwined lives, the three degrees of separation at most, maybe only one via neutral parties.
And the winds tell me when they breathe.
And my guitars hum sympathetically with them, even untouched in their cases.
And you can never understand that because you don’t understand our dimension.
You can come north a thousand miles
You can walk right by me
You can look into my eyes
But you will never see me
You will only see your own reflection.
Leave me to my roads, I am happy to travel them alone.
