Fuck Mountain refuses to turn on the heat

Been playin the lotto very frequently. Drinkan on Mondays and Tuesdays, when no one bothers you at the pink. Took a couple shitty portraits, couple good ones. A weird dyptych, a towny with a dog guided me to the cave where they party. Empty beer cans, shotgun shells. I think a serpentine belt. Shit water, dark corners where the hobos live. Boy said you aint gotta worry bout the locals, its the hoboes that will stab ya. Wake at dawn or sleep till 2, mosy through the factories on the bike when you drink too much and speedbumps become an issue. Money is tight, my jeans are getting looser. People look at me with small horror, like I have a choice to look this shitty. Can't tell em that that stray dogs don't fight each other when your alone in nowhere. I smell bad and people tell me a bunch of bullshit about dreams and triumph. No body sees angels no more, the ones that do, guess theyre living in caves. But who am I to talk right. Days are small triumphs and struggles to make it work, nightmares about skinny love and how the other half is living. I'll take the nightmares over the other. I'll be in Chama when the money, the luck, runs out. Thats fine. Like it that way. Sides, if were gonna have tales for the young ones, gotta make it a little eastwood, a little old times. Aint no shame in that, I'll bleed the well to a dream of angels and horses on a salt flat moon. Sometimes its like that.