In a Pontiac 600 on a Florida side street. There's no 
place like the Midwest, except the Southeast. When the 
clouds hang low on a vacant beach and the roads stretch 
on, endlessly. And the great facade of the Holiday Inn is 
windowless at 3am, we're on camera, we're careless for 
once and we'll be damned if we're not having fun, we're 
on radar. We're not very far from an ocean breeze or a 
field of dreams, and no one is getting any sleep. Just as 
the bluffs are hills the gulf's a sea, the sky's the 
limit we meet. Horizons on the palms and leaves, the 
waves reflect the blues and greens.. Sink or swim, drive 
or die, find a coast, stay alive. A Northern source will 
feed us now, but we'll all end up at the river's mouth. 
You know what they say about passing ships? They're old 
ladies, in leopard print. Who've lived their lives, with 
telescopes. Who've made mistakes, but are now too old.