Lydia's

head is pounding. brain wants to escape from cruel body. last night was awesome. maybe too awesome? sleeping in a room with nude silhouettes painted on every wall and nothing else but beds pushed together. i sleep on the matress, it doesn't bother me. outside a trumpeter molests his instrument. trucks drive past. and cars. the city fills up with smog and noise. at 6am last night we ventured out into the city to find food. it was like a late night at mel's back home. the city was a husked tomb. sun just climbing into the sky. walking across a bridge I could have been in a very lucid dream. a gull called out. light seeped around the edges of the clouds in the sky. the only sound was our footsteps echoing through the canyons the skyscrapers created. today it's back in the bus, then 4 sets in a city called Swift Current. 4 sets of original music is always a trick to muster.

if the beer flows the band will flow and we can flow all the way to brandon tomorrow night. drown any misery in alcohol. wash away problems with highballers. Paul is always the last one out of bed. last born. he eats pickled eggs. back to the travelling bus fleet. throw my stuff back in a bag. on to the next drink. onward, downward.

we are sold out of cds.


g

Lydia's