Eleven years following. No desire to go back. The songs don't do as much as they did. Can barely handle sound as it is Thought of a mass gathering, post-calamity brings anxiousness. "Come with us, we'll set you free" the redhead preached into the megaphone. The great American road trip. I disassociate as I walk through the free market Glimpsing into the dead eyes of souls whose lives have been spent chasing pleasure, experience after experience. Great friends and memories of summers spent. They try to bring me back with them. I know however that in my heart that I cannot truly return to such life again. I wake up, drink my coffee, and write.