2 weeks pass and the words overflow in coversations with little to no substance. silence endures in the back seat of the new car he bought thinking this meant he was more of a man. a man who cared about his family. their status. meetings of the minds found him to be dead wrong beyond a soft correction or shift of the hand. it's easy to misread the clouds over head as they seem to dicipate, excaping permanence. he was thinking that he did good things in his day to day and the love would never fade into obscure hand signals and obligitory shouting matches across the threshold of the haven they called home. he wondered where he belonged. all he had were songs. pockets empty cause the gas tank called to them; now he carries songs. on the backs of old songs he writes new ones. working it all out in the open hoping to hitch a ride back in the direction of certainty. he knows not at all the path that he has chosen is enclosed in a mountain with a meaning the gets deep into the heart. he knows not of his future song, but he still sings.