The Ghost of Sarah Gyllenhall

In the twisted dark of middle America I think I'm somewhere in Nebraska Been driving for hours through the pounding rain to nowhere really...just to get away. With eyelids heavy as broken dreams, and no more whiskey to fill the seams, I can almost see the whispering lights, calling...calling through the endless night When I come upon the source of the calls There she stands among the crumbling walls. With a yellowed apron and hair dyed black, smiling ever so slightly she turns her back. I follow her into the ramshackle bar and she tells me stories of love and war. We drink from a bottle of Kentucky's own, here together, yet both alone. She leads me up the winding stair, and as she moves, lets down her hair. And as she lay upon the bed, I do believe I've lost my head. In the morning when I wake, I find a note on a dusty plate: Think no more of things you've lost, for when your dead they matter not.