Transcript

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I don't know where I'm going, and I don't care where. I've been
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hanging on the smudged words of writers of yesteryear, and I've made up my
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mind there are some things you just won't find. Here I go again,
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half now and half then, though I keep searching for some solace I never
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seem to get. That's just a smudged word, O Lord, an intangible,
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irresistible poet mambo, And know what it means to walk along the pages
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within the seams. And so we go again. Out on our limbs.
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Huggin turns merciless to our rims, like a light bulb that flickers but never
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dims. I've made up my mind there are some things you just might never find.