time's been tough on the search for possible replacements
for a 20th century talk-pattern to pretty up
the ghosts of the memories of junked trains
dragging us over the distance of this
one wild land, winds of dust leaving a layer
as abrasive as a sandpaper heart and a
concrete kiss.

So yeah, I guess I'm worn down to the bone,
bleached in the sun like what happens to
all the great gunslingers...

if it didn't rain all year, this would be
the perfect desert, 'cause you, I know
you're a mirage, all shimmery and
mystical...

visions in blinding color

naked visions




I'll wait for the new world at dawn