His goal in life was to be an echo. Riding alone town after town toll after toll. A fixed bayonet through the great southwest to forget her. She appears in his dreams. But in his car and in his arms. A dream can mean anything. A cheap sunset on a television set can upset her. But he never could. Remember to remember me. Standing still in your past. Floating fast like a hummingbird. His goal in life was to be an echo. The type of sound that floats around and then back down. Like a feather. But in the deep chrome canyons of the loudest Manhattans. No one could hear him. Or anything. So he slept on a mountain. In a sleeping bag underneath the stars. He would lie awake and count them. And the gray fountain spray of the great Milky Way. Would never let him. Die alone. Remember to remember me. Standing still in your past. Floating fast like a hummingbird. Remember to remember me. Standing still in your past. Floating fast like a hummingbird. A hummingbird. A hummingbird