Sleeping in an unmade bed in a drafty house. The leaves are falling.
All my things are old and speak the same language.

My veins are made of twine.
I drive a road I know like the back of my hand.

Through golden light, red clay, small towns, cemeteries and rusted roofed shacks, knowing that this is where I am from and thinking of all the years I have spent ignoring this.

...