Sure as hell, that those things we loved ain't what they used to be and I'm
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Getting old, but still, have lots of stories that need to be told and if someone would take the time to listen up, I'd prefer that was before my time is up, but
Every time my lips start moving, it seems to me like the room gets arctic cold and
There is a strange kind of chill in the air, it's not like
There's any frost or snow, but as sure as eggs are eggs it's getting that way
Itjust feels like the world is closing down, or it's frozen solid
Nothing is moving and nobody is talking about the weather or anything else for that matter
God damn, there's nothing worse than being halfway through a conversation and it suddenly dawns on you, that you have been
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Left alone, in this loathsome bed which makes me yearn back to my prospecting days when that other voice of mine the
One which never stopped talking, but even then I guess there were times when my mind wished he would be quiet, and to satisfy that wish I would often
Neck a bottle or two of rye whiskey, just to shut him up, after which his voice was soon replaced by dreams, where I would wander through an imaginary town and wonder if a place like this could truly
Exist, with a fine hotel, a thriving community going about its business, an honest sheriff, who was supported by an upstanding mayor, where
Love and life coexist fighting for survival between a rock and a hard place, on this godforsaken continent
Yet here I am yet again led on my bed alone talking to myself and contemplating if I should reach out for that bottle
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