On Travelling

Up above you darling (past the line, between the land), I'll call you from Vancouver 

just looking @ your picture till it's all that I can stand. This dream's a lil narrow, so 

I'm sticking to my guns while the wake-up calls keep coming (though sometimes, dearie, 

lord the thought of another one). 



Are you shaking? Are you sleeping? Another weepy lil rager drowned down to the ring.

It's hard a moon to swallow. You're drunk or you're dead under this swollen,

swampy sky; when the thought of one more broken night is more than some'll ever shed.