I've been listening to Guy Clark lately, which I do fairly often. He reminds me of when I was footloose, out in Colorado, living nowhere in particular, supporting myself however; there were bursts of light, time to examine a weed growing next to a railroad tie, mysteries & mysterious lovers. That's the effect of his songs, to take you back somewhere that maybe you were or maybe you only remember in a dream. His people are getting by, his skies are big and dark & white, his Texas is everyone's past. These lines are in "Randall Knife":
My father died when I was 40
And I couldn't find a way to cry
Not because I didn't love him
Not because he didn't try
Well, I'd cried for every lesser thing
Whiskey, pain and beauty
But he deserved a better tear
And I was not quite ready.