There is a moan winding it’s way through the venting of the hotel
A wind trying to get it, sad about it, angry about it
I’m trying to stay out
The wind is me, I’m that wind
I’m that sad angry moan so low in the belly it might not be there
Discontent as quiet as a small finger brushing a pillow in the next room
But as busy and impulsive as the highway we drove in on
But I’ll leave by local roads, through the back country, through a long cut that takes years if you’re lucky

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