as he lights an American Spirit, he asks how i can smoke such shit.
i say: 'here' nothing like chain-smoking GPC cigarettes, because any smokes will kill ya, but these will make you feel like it.?
i sit back down on the parking lot curb, and remember back to february and the trip to hartford.
when five minutes ago he was passed out on the staircase, trying to walk to his apartment but not making it all the way.
and now he's driving us 100 miles an hour down the interstate, another beer in his hand and swearing we won't be late. that was before everyone moved to New Mexico.
they all left a couple of months ago. until the day, my friend, when I sleep on the floor of your van again, I'll be waiting in this parking lot. and in my dreams, I am dirty, broke, beautiful and free. my hand clenched in a fist and my face in a smile, after hitching too many miles.
we aren't revolutionaries, but we are the revolution!
sometimes i think that the whole movement is just me and you, and maybe we all be better off if that were true. because then at least we know where we stand, and we could tell our comrades?
apart from the man?.
but if the world isn't that simple, maybe this town is, at least. and if it's not marching with them to war, i'll sure not marching with you for peace. class traitor?
what-fucking-ever!
it's just another middle-class kid, too. but if it'd not good at changing, i抦 good at self-loathing, so i抣l class hate myself with you. may our only occupation be not having a job.
may the only cocktails that we make be molotov. may that day be now, and for as many days after that as we know how.
it starts in this parking lot.
and in my dreams, I am dirty, broke, beautiful and free.
my hand clenched in a fist and my face in a smile, after hitching too many miles.