Bags Are Packed

My bags are packed. No turning back, oh not till next year. Next year, that is, if I dont shoot my tires out. But Im on the road, and so is my mind. Everythings left behind. Oh, down down way down South on the interstate, and some down on highway six. Everythings there, way down. And down's the only direction I got on this fucked up compass, but thats quite alright for me. Its the way Im heading anyways. Been heading that way all along, but, again, I can only embrace the feeling. The feeling? The falling feeling. Im checked out of the four-floor hotel of hell, and Im fucking off with all the prying eyes that pick ruthlessly at my soul. This four week vacation will take place, even though it shouldn't, and won't help at all. I guess Ill be there. My body will. The rest crossed the Rubicon and there's no turning back. Never liked hotels anyways. Never liked castles. Too many bloody guests.