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Dream.
A deserted overpass, the road below, the sun, a bit of wind.
Dream.
In nothingness, where there is everything.
A single piece, forty minutes.
The electronics ooze and float from the sun-baked road.
Placid guitar waves tousle and overturn, pass and repass, accommodate and question the mirages that are born and die.
I dream from the overpass.
I dream of everything, as there is nothing.
Concrete details insinuate themselves mid-air: bolts that tighten, glass that creaks, perhaps tolls that judge.
I dream.
I hide in nothingness, clinging to everything.
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