I recently went to Europe by myself for a few weeks for a couple shows and to meet a few people and to allow myself some rain which I miss tremendously since living on the west coast. The experience was beautiful and lonely and confusing in every way possible. Being on tour is a surreal thing - most of your free time spent in the dreamlike hours of the late night and early morning, wandering through strange empty cities trying to find a hotel or a pack of cigarettes or somewhere to sit down and call home. It’s like being in one of those dioramas at the museum. A scene frozen in time, still and quiet and pretty, but at the same time reflecting back at you something unnerving and solitary. So you sit for a while on some curb and you try calling home but you can’t get a signal, and you watch a small fox tear apart a bag of trash in a parking lot and you take a photo of it and your stomach is turning because you forgot to eat before everything closed and that was hours ago, so you walk back to the hotel and the doors open automatically and you get something from the vending machine and you go to sleep - you dream that it’s Christmas Eve and you’re at the shopping mall near the house where you grew up and it’s crowded and you can almost make out the song playing in Marshall Fields.