Cut into the grooves.
Seventies Califone awash in blood and gore.
You’re a swell guy.
And I don’t meet many swell guys.
Wish we could eat chicken quesadillas together and forget we were ever wanting.
Pressing the flesh.
Honey Jack lies drip from your tongue like Amityville Horror flies.
That’s not you and it never will be no matter how often you sit in your room spraying paintball bullets onto a wounded prairie canvas.
I love visiting you at Lost Weekend.
It’s a home away from home which is quite incredible when I’ve never had a real home to speak of.
You’re a long lost brother and a newfound friend and when we happened upon each other in Noblesville I knew we were onto something.
Let’s go the distance before this record starts to skip.
Let’s go to the Hotel California before the voices down the corridor destroy us through their pathological need to be right, wrong or dead on arrival.
I’m imagining what it would be like having a dance party with you. You’d bring all the right records and we’d both feel like teenagers again for bludgeoned seconds at a time.