I don’t think it would matter where i go, i imagine this feeling would follow me. I feel like every experience has been repackaged and re-purposed. Nothing is really new.  I wake up in the same bed, with the same sheets, with the new rip in the middle of them.  The hole reminds me of the space you occupy and rediscovering the shape of what was once familiar.  I want to tear these sheets in long strips, but doing so would force me to buy new sheets or never sleep.  But this is really nothing new. I’m awake and i will be.  The anesthesia isn’t working.  I never want to see these streetlamps again, or the neighborhood they illuminate. Or the town i live in. I don’t want to see the next town i live in, the beautiful mountain vistas i’ll grow to resent.  I love this album and i’ll never forget it, but it will never recreate the night we belched the words in your basement.  I want to capture it, certify reality, but perhaps i’ve remembered it wrong, we were never here at all.  The glimmer of glory days dull in the retelling. The moment’s passed, it cannot last.  This has been done before, and what really do i have to contribute?  I’m mired in the mundane and getting too comfortable.  A change in routine & scenery is no change at all.  If every experience is processed and interpreted by association, it ultimately dissolves into repetition. I don’t know where i’m going with this or where i’m coming from. I feel simultaneously empty and full. It confounds me to no end. Except for this one.