And then Bob Dylan’s voice drops in like a nuclear fucking bomb, drink yr whisky and water, drink your whisky & water, everybody will be ok, somehow, no wonder why, don’t think twice, it’s alrite. Man, I just don’t know, really, if it’s alright. He says the things that just sit on the line of being true, eternally, maybe, but I usually think twice, at least.

I can only give you my heart, my soul’s too hard to find, to give up… whisky blood buzz Ohio, “I owe money to the money I owe.” Goddamn, Stephen Shore, WIlliam Eggleston, color & January Jones just losing it, silently. The greatest sin is when we refuse to speak, hiding all the terrible things we think every secret wells up, ready to burst, sometimes it does— but, lord, why do it got to stay under the surface, still? And I know, it would be horrible, just terrible if it were to break, but god, how far can we go like this, not talking, not wanting to explode, letting ourselves act out, do what we want. We are a country build upon men, afraid; to look at themselves, afraid; to look at their wrongdoings, afraid; to look at their women, afraid and, fuck, we are sad about it, always.

“Why don’t you make something of yourself?” Make something up, tell the world your story, but it’s there, my friend, still itching to get out — a moment or two of sentimentality will ruin you, blow your cover. Because what happens when we take off the mask? Another mask? Take it off, too. I don’t care, no, no, no, play the fucking game RIGHT.  If you don’t, the games gettin’ ruined. So what? Will we lose? What will we lose? At most, our lives. What we thought it once was, maybe, maybe, at least, at least. God, “the universe is indifferent. (Man, why did you have to say that?)” Why didn’t you just keep quiet what everybody knows, thinks, feels, why even say it? Just to see what it feels like, don’t be cracks, that’s it, don’t be cracks, crazy, you know, that’ll throw everything goes, gone, no — nothing just goes, we will watch ourselves crumble. We could only pray of the greatest fears we wish we could have. If it causes, pain, well it must. I don’t know how else, a little pain usually… the world is a rough place, but it’s all we got. You can make a new man, yes, but a whole new world? Leave it to the movies, kid. Whaddya think, it all comes together like that? Just like that. Just like… THAT!  No, son, you make it, sell it, market it, and at the end of the day, hell, it’s fucking yours. 

“Why won’t you let me have this job? I want it, I deserve it.
-Pete Campbell

“Why, because your parents are rich?” 
-Don Draper

“Lean my head on the hood of your car. I take it too far. I still owe money to the money to the money I owe. I never thought about love when I thought about home…”

“What kind of man are you?”
“I’m on a bloodbuzz, God I AM, I’m on a bloodbuzz.”
“You don’t want to run away with me, you just want to run away.”

And it ends, again. We are on the roads outside Brooklyn, in Queens, on the Expressway. I’m goin’ home.

—These wars will come back to kill you, “I’m too tired to drown…” — I am an American man, why would you want to be something like that? It’s not about want, it’s about what I am, not desire, it’s fuckin’ destiny, damnit. I’m not losing my brain. Getting tired to save anything — I won’t run — “We’ve got another thing coming undone.” Honey, I don’t know what you think… I think we’re all hoping for a flood, get us out of this life we’ve been handed, scared to stand up and say I am what I am, it’s the unclarity, the bleeding, we desire to be opened up and searched, what secrets could we hide? What past must we run from? Look at history and flow, flowers, & floods. 

“Loose lips sink ships.” Cross the ocean & find paradise open arms & confidence, a woman to pour your soul shitty thoughts into, like a movie, break up, water, wonder, “Who cares? This country was build upon worse stories that you couldn’t imagine.” “You got yr whole life ahead of you. Forget about that boy in the box.” Oh, carousel by Kodak, Faulkner, Yeats, John Cheever. 

Nostalgia means “pain from old wound.” The inescapable, irreplaceable, irreparable fact that we are alone, so very alone. “I don’t even think to write directions,” or “make corrections.” 

“Leave your home, change your name…”

“A man is whatever room he is in,”

“Though the waters are rising, still no surprising you…”

The room is the train… “Man, it’s all been forgiven, the swans are a swimming…”

A whisper, a whimper, really, and it starts over. Nothing ends. But clothes tear, skin rips, blood spills, eyes tear, we lose, always, we lose something, sacrifice or offering, what gods other than the monsters that rage inside? That we hide, in the closets, those “monsters” who could birth, who could create, who could play, with a friend, a game, that would save us, be free, of guilt, of sin, no longer trapped by fears and desires you can’t control. A dream, a television show, a movie. 

Good luck.