you...at a trainstation, after dark, your body freshly limp buried in a park.
this was my house, in this house was my wife and my cat. now i have no wife and i have no cat, now my life is a symphony of discord. you like that music. you have no culture!
i make my own movies...tales form the rode, pieces of you.
we call it the shit box, because when you're on a train three-hundred-and-sixty-pissin-days a year, the only thing its good for is takin a crap in.
fred makes artifical limbs with money from subscriptions. i sell his subscriptions across the united states while using one of those very limbs, we appreciate your support. this is a picture of fred and myself working at the old factory in athens. they shut that sumbutch without a days notice. and thats the story of why i'm on the rails.
this was on the way to baton rouge. wilbur jr my travelin partner was on this train and died of wounds. i buried him in a drainage basin, or so the police report reads.