September, 1969. he found himself waiting again. out at the crossroads, out on the lam. this time not running, this time by right. a road-side hitcher waits for headlights. "the blues won't bring me down." that pick-up truck stopped. "where you headed, kid?" "back to the boardwalk coast to fix the wrong i did." that old man would bring him just as far as he could. his hellhound sniffing out for a trace of any good. the hope he's chasing. the blues he carried are dead and buried.
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