Cowboy Boots & Glory Pursuits

Austin, Texas.
South by Southwest

Cowboy boots, but no cowboys. Glory pursuits, in line with the fashion. We wave our arms to the motions, bend our wills to our ways, and in this mob of confusion, face value appears to replace faith.

The circus, the brigade, the hand shakes, and free drinks.... privilege for remembering strangers names. I really can't complain that my belly is full and head of libations enough to make such social fancies work for me. But these social implications soon loose their appeal and I'm about as inclined to speak to a new stranger as I am to shoot myself with a shotgun. Just feels like one long gambling night that never ends and may amount to some profit, but will always be lacking in payments of comprehension of further enlightenment or soul revivals. Most of this playing dress up seems just a distraction from the point, from the truth, and I want to run back to the studio, back to my room, back to the arms of old friends or a library of books- anything real, anything away from this royal jester parade. It's just not my place, that's all. It takes all kinds, and my kind, of like mind are increasingly harder to find- the divide between my skin and all the others becoming indelibly more pronounced.

I don't do the rock star thing.
I do the musician thing.
And I want to go home.