There were many singers who sat behind run-down trucks crossing state lines, coining words to go with the dust in the air and the warmth of the unpredictable. Artists have been taunted by the bare canvas and blank pages alike. While they try to figure out the empty spaces between inspiration and creation, a torture engulfs their very soul. It makes it impossible for them to think or even breathe. Across the sky, birds fly without bounds and direction, tempting them and leaving behind a shell of a person. The men run their fingers through their hair and the women toss pebbles into the creek, hoping in the name of God or Nature or Synergy or Nothingness, that the dry spell end. Without direction, we just keep moving along this path that takes us nowhere and that makes it all the more fearsome.
There is no saying if we'll hit a dead end or a wrong turn. Why, just the other day we heard in the papers about the man who led a woman down an alley way, to her death. She didn't know where to go and played a hunch on a blighted moment. While we hear jazz music in the background with head a-spinning, you can't do very much to stop it either. A cigarette swirl and a knee-weakening move turn everything into a beautiful haze.
