Your Dreams Are Slapped Away

She asked an innocent enough question.  "Why do you keep listening to that song?"  I had been listening, on an almost daily basis to a Snuff (great band) song that just seemed right.  "All You Need."  If you've heard the band, you've probably heard the song.  It just fits my thoughts right now.  Despite the lyrics ("All you need/All you can't get/Warm morning sun/a familiar silhouette/But your dreams are slapped away/A whip crack through a rainy day" and "I'll see an empty shell of a man/Torn apart/Laid to waste/Pin the medal on a half a heart" are two that come to mind -- but the whole song works), I find the entire thing pretty uplifting.

She had never heard the song, so she downloaded it (and paid for that download, you cheap music stealing bastards) and promptly called me after finding the lyrics.

"Pretty intense, but I can see where you would find that inspiring," she said.  Like she knows, like she knows every little thought that runs through my head.  She doesn't.  Sometimes I think she'd like to, but that's neither here nor there, as I don't want to witness the train wreck that would ensue. 

"All your dreams are back where they belong/All your fears are up and running strong"

The lyrics are fairly on the down side, but it fits Snuff's sound (punk with organs and horns, if you must know).  I'll wear the groove out on the record (yeah, listening to it on vinyl) before I ever say it's a sad song.  It's a real song.  Realism.  Realist.

Asked today if I were a pessimist.  Said I was a realist.  Realized, and had it pointed out, they are about the same thing.  It's a correct observation. 

My daughter and I have been invited to a dinner with some of my friends, and at first I hesitated because we can be a rowdy bunch.  Claws stroking hair.  Perverted voices and whispered threats of skin suits.  But we would behave in the company of my angel, and I think she would really enjoy it.  She would make herself the center of attention after getting comfortable.  She would look at L2D2's hair and think of ways to twist it (and she may try).  We may do it.  She rarely sees me interact with my friends.

"Shot through to an empty soul/The horse without a rider charges on"

I am tired, and I still got a long night ahead of me.  This road is dark, the headlights are working, and the classic rock is coming in through bursts of static that grow longer and longer the further I travel from home.  There are things at the edge of the road, their red and green eyes reflecting back at me, unblinking.  If I roll down the window, I'm assaulted by the stench of blood and the occasional screams of some unearthly creatures that have found a deer bounding through the bushes.  Something to my right keeps pace with the car.  It is wearing the spine of a bear as a belt, and it has somehow managed to change its fur color every time I glance at it.  If I run out of gas, I know it will pull my intestines from my living body and gnaw on them.  I cannot stop the car.  I cannot turn back.  The things that howl have crowded the road.  They slither and swallow birds whole.  They keep me from reversing course, but they don't push me forward.  They can wait.  They always do.

My right foot, the one that keeps the pedal down, is growing tired, and I swear my eyelids feel heavier.  If I can make it to my destination before I fall asleep, I'll be safe.  If not, I'll be food.

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