I kept writing through the summer, and in August the baby was born and I’d cradle him in my left arm while writing melodies at the piano with my right, and I said, let Osiris the keeper of the gates be my witness, other songwriters may go soft when they get to be parents but I am going to keep going all the way down into the inner darkness, it will set a good example for the baby, and besides, what am I going to do, suddenly start writing songs about cute things instead of songs about how to wrest cries of triumph from the screaming places? Please. May the baby grow up to spit in my face if I should pose that hard.
I want to explain something to you. On the day when the last of the undead cyborgs lies in the wet red clay of the camouflaged pit that trapped him, and the smoke rising from his circuits indicates in vanishing Morse code that he truly was the last hominid to walk the surface of this late planet, that will technically be a lie, because there will still be three hominids left, and they’ll be called the Mountain Goats, and they will still be touring. On that day, may the fates delay its coming, we will announce a tour of the network of bio-pods underneath the ruins of the former cities, and it will cost you a quart of whole blood to get in. In the present day, let’s enjoy it while it lasts, what we’re going to do is tour down south, because the American South in January is evidence that the universe loves us deeply and holds an abiding concern for our pleasure and well-being.
And I will be there: both at the tour of the American South in January and at the tour of the bio-pods underneath the ruins of former cities. I’m saving up my blood.
This is why I’m friends with the people I’m friends with.