I still like Iron and Wine, like I like junkyard dogs and parking lots, and birds around the graves.

It's never left, but I dig holes with Issac Brock and ask Why? about all their words for sadness.

I don't blame it on Michael Hurley, I feel as guilty as Andrew Jackson Jihad, drifting into dreaming, seeing something I had never seen before. I've said Goodbye and Goodluck and hello to Thao with the get down, stay down.