A book is almost never done, so it goes.
A second winter in the park, it told me so.
All those things I imagined.
Oh, they know.
There’s too much drink, I’m written out,
close the doors — it’s time to go.
Too much drink, I’m written out,
close the doors. Shipped the files,
cleaned the tent, packed the bike,
I’m written out, it’s time to go.
Down the mountains,
turning south, Mojave, New Mexico.
Down the mountains,
turning south, Mojave, New Mexico …