I hear voices in my head
That's me
My voice

The problem with crazy people
They don't recognize that voice as their own
One person you don't want to be alienated from is yourself
That's got to cause problems

My favorite voice speaks from under the lamplight
Of a roadside diner
In the urban sprawl of Los Angeles
Some time in the 40s
Something like a Jim Thompson novel

I like to speak from other places that don't еxist
Waiting in line at a Dairy Freeze Whip
On a bayou outside Houston
Insidе the ghost ruins
Of the cities of my Martian ancestors
At the end counter table of the Waffle House
With the view of Walden Pond

I was just there
A man about my age comes in
For lunch with his granddaughter
He punches in Fortunate Son and Layla
On the jukebox
I'm looking out the window
Thinking about America
And I start to cry
So I pay the waitress for his meal
And tell her not to say who it was
But she does
And he comes out to thank me

Thanks for playing the songs I answer
You like Eric Clapton? he asks
I think about what to say
It takes a moment
It's a good song I say

Places that don't exist have something in common
They're real
Places that do exist aren't so real after awhile