I drive this desert road. Alone. Just my black Accent and me. Looking for an unmolested view. Some grand Felicity beyond the reach of man. And to think... I used to want a filthy kid. I used to want a fucking wife. But what I think I need now is some sound advice. I think I need a vice. Some rot for gorgeous brains. Thirty-two years old. And still so afraid. Don’t talk to me. Leave me alone with this Earth I get to call my home. No power lines. No telephone. Leave me alone. I used to want a kid. I did. And sometimes I still do. It’s true. It’s that selfish part of me that wants to share this road with eyes a lot like mine, but with the magic left inside—my shotgun loaded with dropping jaw. As the earth quakes in 5/4 time. And if you listen close, you just might hear it whisper, hear the earth call out your name. Nudge you to the edge. Let you peek inside. And pull you back again. It’s whispering your name. It's whispering your name. You’re not alone. No, you’re not alone. It’s whispering your name.