17/11

I hate long drives with the same angst as airports, so as the red mark route dissolved onto map I let out a bloodshot tear. We drove straight for 200 miles until the red crash ran out of drive. We filled her up and stretched our longing legs, ready for the next 200. The drive was bleak and the rushing views weren't particularly to die for. Somewhere over the hills was liverpool and the other side of the hard shoulder was Manchester, I was glad it was just a flying visit. Rain can ruin the prettiest of places and for that six-hour-fucking drive I looked past the oozing landscape into the lines of Keroac. For all I cared we were driving south from Denver to LA, in the back of a pick up truck bursting full of hobos with eyes full of sunrises and sunsets, occasionally stopping for piss and bourbon.

Breaking through the madness of the crowd to our stage I stamped my feet and stared out my laces, just my laces. We had no room on stage, the headline band ensured there was enough room for autotune and egos. There was hardly enough room to stand without treading on the front row full of girls. We picked up the cold crowd and warmed that tunnel like it was home, built for us, for that night. I stare at my laces again, and break a smile, remembering where I was, what I was doing, how I'd like to be nowhere else and how everyone I know would love to have that half hour slot.

20 hour days, in the back of vans.
fuck 9-5