This song's about a bunch of stuff, it's about that, it's about a conflict I've always had in my lifebetween wanderlust on the one hand and homesickness on the other.I go off on these insane tours for months at a time and I get homesickand then I come home and roughly a day and a half laterI'd be crawling up the *** walls begging to go back on tour again.I never did quite figure that one out.And finally, this song is also about a dream that I hadthat I was in Dallas, Texas, of all places, and I was hitchhikingand I got picked up by Bob Dylan.So, Matthew.Hello, mate.Do you want to lead us into this one?Okay.I keep having dreamsof pioneers and pirate ships and Bob Dylanand people wrapped up tight in the things that will kill them.Being trapped in a lift, plunging straight to the bottomof open seas and waves of life we've forgotten.I keep having dreams.Amy walked in a bar in Exeter and went back to her house and I slept beside her.She woke up screaming in the middle of the night, terrified of her own insides.Dreams of pirates ships and patty hats, breaking through a life of arrest.She can't remember which came first, the house, the home, or the terrible thirst.She keeps having dreams.And on the worst days, when it feels like life weighs 10,000 tons.She's got her cowboy boots and car keys on the bed stand, so she can always run.She could get up, shower in, and half an hour she'd be gone.Keep having dreams of things I need to do, of waking up and not falling through.But it feels like I haven't slept at all when I wake to her silence and she's facing the wall.Posters of Dylan and of Hemingway, an anti-compass for a sailor's escape.She says, you just can't live this way.And I close my eyes and I never say.Still having dreams.And on the worst days, when it feels like life weighs 10,000 tons.I sleep with my passport, one eye on the back door, so I can always run.I could get up, shower in, and half an hour I'd be gone.And come morning, I am disappeared.Just an imprint on the bed seat.I'm by the roadside, with my thumb out.A car pulls up, and Bob's driving.And so we're climbing, we don't say a word.As we pull up, into the sunrise.And these rivers of tarmac are like arteries across the country.We are blood cells alive in the bloodstream, beating out of the country.We are electric pulses in the pathways of the sleeping soul of the country.We are electric pulses in the pathways of the sleeping soul of the country.We are electric pulses in the pathways of the sleeping soul of the country.