The wheel of life and death spins and spins and sometimes it runs over love and sometimes it stops and picks it up like a sympathetic bus driver for the crazy lady screaming at her schizophrenic shadows… hey, if it happened to Kayne West it could happen to me… and while I’m working till 3 in the morning and the bed is calling it actually isn’t because there’s not a voice there anymore…
I met a guitarist outside the La Brea Tar Pits playing “blowing in the wind” and he told me it’s about newspapers and that Bob Dylan wrote it (which I think I already knew, one of those facts) and what the fuck are facts anyway? It’s a fact that when things fall apart you have to put them back together again, but you may be missing some pieces so don’t get upset if it doesn’t look the same anymore.
Like a series of Russian dolls that start growing up once you remove them from inside their dollwomb, it’s impossible to get the damn things back inside their containers again, but it’s all part of growing up and evolving and transforming, without it where would we be?
You can’t hold a good man down, but you can send his heart into hibernation, into the cold Siberian Winter… and all that malarkey… and god be damned that’s a good word, malarkey.
But a good man will rise again and strike back at the wicked, at the wayward passing of time. At the wounds that caress his battered flesh.
The hunter sometimes is the hunted.
The killer licks his knife clean.
The moon casts a sinister smile upon the Joshua Tree.
The good that will come from this is exactly what the Earth needs.
I didn’t come this far to turn back now.
This halo is on layaway. I bought it from a blind bluesman who hadn’t use for it anymore
I best get my boogie on. My boogie-woogie-woogie.