I stumbled out of bed.
I got ready for the struggle.
I smoked a cigarette,
and I tightened up my gut.
I said, This can't be me,
must be my double.
And I can't forget
I can't forget
I can't forget
but I don't remember what.

*Blonde tips, dark roots. Glassy blue eyes, ribs showing through papery skin.*

I'm burning up the road.
I'm heading down to Phoenix.
I got this old address
of somone that I knew.
It was high and fine and free;
ah, you should have seen us!
And I can't forget
I can't forget
I can't forget
but I don't remember who.

*The memory of skin hurt like fire and crosses. Having given the gift of solace, allowing a taking of self, and then finding that nothing comes in return. Ever.*

I'll be there today
with a big bouquet
of cactus;
I got this rig that runs on memory.
And I promise,
cross my heart,
they'll never catch us,
but if they do
just say it was me.

*No place to pull off. Sunrise in an hour. No matter, no worry. No caring. No, must find shelter. Dying means an end to this pain and the beginning of the other. This pain is earned and eternal and what is needed; the other is senseless and there by birthright. This pain is good and true and pure and meant to be felt. This pain feeds life; the other reminds death of life's lack.*

I loved you all my life,
and that's how I want to end it.
The summer's almost gone.
The winter's tuning up.
Yeah, the summer's gone
but a lot goes on forever.
And I can't forget
I can't forget
I can't forget
but I can't remember what.

*Tired body, tired soul, even in its absence. Shelter is found, convenient and seedy by the side of the road in the form of a motel. Stapled curtains and a muddy shower. Solace and asylum. A pale, naked body, curled on a filthy bed. Tears welling in truth and misery. One word, uttered at dawn.*

Sire.