Looking for another place
Somewhere else to be
Looking for another chance
To ride into the sun
Returning from Maine, the road turned from rainy to sunny.
Summer whispered on the scattered days when the temperature reached into the 80’s.
In some cities there is already the bane of a heatwave, driving the warmth into the concrete, into the labyrinthine subway stations, into the headache-inducing unbearable afternoons where the only relief is in a cold shower, in lying very still as a fan does its damnedest to no real avail.
Ride into the sun
Ride into the sun
Ride into the sun
Ride into the sun
Somewhere, this song was here before. In a melody, in a riddle, in a dreamscape between sleep and wake. That first brush with sun and heat after a cool spring is disorienting. Giddiness and loveliness and a pretty little mess as we adjust to the new intensity in the sky. Sun – my sun – my beautiful sun – shining solely on my way…
Where everything seems so pretty
When you’re lonely and tired of the city
Remember it’s a flower made out of clay
While I’ve often found myself in New York for at least one summer weekend, the only city I find summer somewhat bearable is Boston, where the bedroom offers easy respite from the hottest part of the day, and the nights cool down enough to allow for restless, aimless walking. It’s the only thing to do when summer heat prevents easy sleep. The only thing to do in a city…
To the city
Where everything seems so ugly
When your sitting at home in self pity
Remember you’re just one more person
Who’s living there
The roads lead back to summer.
The journey that started in the spring…
How far will it take us, how hot will it get, and how will we get there from here? Impossible to make out the twists and turns to come, even if the end – the destination – is in the beginning, in those earliest days of spring, when houses of glass and green gave the only glimpses of hope on those nights still so cold.
Summer rises from the other side of the ocean bed, laps at the harbor of Boston, and stretches out across the Atlantic from the docks of New York – connected by salty tears, ocean droplets, the crying of the sky…
It’s hard to live in the city
It’s hard to live in the city
It’s hard to live in the city
