I’m fucked up, but the soundtrack is fine

I tripped out

I tripped in

Fucked up

Fucked it

and when the world didn’t end with a bang or a whimper

I got into my car to wander in the desert

but there’s only so long you can go when you’ve got fifty cents

and day dreams and that’s not enough to outdrive the madness that keeps any peaceful, easy feelin’ from my mind

As the sun beats down on me

I pass an old hippy with lines on his shirt, braids in his hair, dancing aimlessly on the side of the road,

his paisley shirt faded,

and a necklace in his hand of broken prayer beads

I stop to ask him if there is a place to stay,

and he says, “There is a hotel up ahead. But it’s not meant for going or staying.”

I mutter a confused thanks and keep on walking

until I find a faded, neon dream of a sign

that says The Hotel California, flashing in retro pink and white

there are palm trees that line the drive

and from a single, open window, pink curtains blowing in the desert breeze, I hear, “….he was a monster, black dressed in leather, she was a Princess, Queen of the highway…”

and then in front of me, a little girl appears, and she says, “Best keep on moving. We have no vacancies here.”

The music fades, the window is abruptly slammed closed, and when I turn the girl is no longer there.

And my car returns, gas tank refilled, and I keep on the go, a song on the radio that tells me just to roll, baby roll

sometimes hell is hot and you gotta burn a little to survive,

so I just drive, ignoring the wars in my mind

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