Arthur Brown, 22, Plays The Guitar And Sings

The thawing clothing smells disgusting, but it's a job. Playing music in a cafe in a mountain town, full of skiers, snowboarders, snow-shoers, photographers, lovers, miscellaneous people. Besides, my car is busted and I can't find anybody to fix it. It's rusting out in back of the motel that I've become a permanent visitor to.

Oh well. It may not be the greatest, but it's a life. At least I'm making a living playing music, I hadn't thought I was ever gonna be able to do that.

But my feet are cold and my shoes are soaked from the slush in the streets and I don't know any of these people and I don't care about them and I've got nothing back at my room and my car's a wreck and I've got nothing at home, and I don't even think I've got a home any more, and you know what? I don't care about anything, and I don't want to be here, I want to be anywhere *but* this godforsaken town of shallow, beautiful people.

My acts' on in ten minutes, I oughta put that emotion into my next song.