BECKY: Don’t backslide on me, Hoss. It’s too late for that.

HOSS: (stoned) Cold white powder. Keep me from it. Pain free. Sweet white poison of the poppy. Beautiful flower. Don’t let me see.

BECKY: Just cruise now, Hoss. Just coast.

HOSS: There’s an inkling sneaking into me. Drip by drip.

BECKY: Just float, baby. Let it ride.

HOSS: A leak that’s strong. Swelling at the seams. You feel it, Becky? It’s aching to burst. Aching to come crushing through these walls.

BECKY: There’s nothing, Hoss. Nothin you can’t cop to. You’ve seen it all.

HOSS: I’ve seen everything but the thing I need to see.

BECKY: There’s nothing new out there. Just trippin variations.

HOSS: No, not new. You’re right. The same ancient demon dog. The same. Keeps chewing on us, silently.

BECKY: Tighten up, Hoss.

HOSS: Separated. Chewed the legs right off. We lost the simple thing.

BECKY: What’d Doc pop you with? You better reel it in, Hoss.

HOSS: The one on one. The tight connection. Lost it clean. (sings softly) “I’m walkin the floor over you.” Ernest Tubb. Blue sequins. Rollin. Just rollin. West Texas. One-night stands. Grand Ole Opry. Ryman Auditorium.

BECKY: Hoss! This Gypsy’s comin here to chomp your liver and spit it out! Now what’re you gonna do? Roll over like some fat old toothless dog and play dead? He’s comin to eat your lunch, booga! Don’t go yesterday on me.

HOSS: Daddy drove a thousand miles to see that show. A thousand miles. We sat around the radio like it was a campfire. Burnin through the night. Glowing. Red.

BECKY: Hoss! Git up! Git on your feet! Git your blood movin now!

HOSS: Blood. Now there’s the thing. Blood. Unseen. Blue tube drained the blood away. Glowing blue. Blue now. Not red. Not bright. Cold blue. Like night. Sucked the blood right out. Removed us all. Phantoms flickering on the wall. Snuffed the campfires out. Sucked us empty into dreams of far-off victory. Plunged us shocked. The endless, bottomless image hole.

BECKY: Hoss, get up! Stand up now! You’re fading.

HOSS: That’s what it was. All that dreaming. Yearning. Hunger. Swapping today for tomorrow. Tomorrow’s here and still not satisfied. Still not quite cracked up to be the crowning victory. Still hungry. Still devouring imagery.

BECKY: Hoss, it’s bald out there. Gutted. Razed to the ground. Maybe you oughta take a little tour around the old neighborhood and get off the nod, just for kicks. Take a wee peek. Smokin. Grim and peeled to the backbone. It’s a monkey now with no face, no body, and no name. And it’s coming to git you, son. Sure as shimmy, it’s comin to do you in.