I hope this poem reaches to you when you have started to lose swings on rock and roll,
when you have failed to fight for yourself when fighting for a belief has been far easy.
I hope the words reaches to your conscious attempts and tell you that
nobody actually likes to talk about changes…all of them fuck like a overaged wine…
I know what it means to get to that point of pulling the trigger…it’s like blues with strings…
but my friend…it’s not worth it… it’s not even close to be a glorified fading.
There’s this reverberation occurs in my mind whenever I create a verse out of this mad…mad pulses.
And it says that the neon is waiting just after this bridge over dark water…
there, I will be able to drink whiskey and listen to this illusionist with a blurring guitar in his hands…
I hope these words can translate those moments before riding out of a misplaced desert town…

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Painting: Luise Anderson.