It's a battle of attrition that we're losing week by week, filled with hollow halls and unanswered calls and empty city streets. We're losing all our friends to distant postal codes. And this stack of letters on my desk is a poor substitute for flesh and bone.      I feel like a sabretooth tiger, slipping slowly into the tar and we hear the awful strains of boredom when we're playing the guitar. The weight of responsibility seems so heavy it could kill and if these fleas they don't suck me dry, I fear this city will.      Sometimes motion is the only things that keep us alive.      Sometimes home is less where you live and more where you lay your head. Sometimes hardwood floors and sleeping bags feel better than a bed. We've been on the road for almost two weeks now and we're not sure we want to quit. Because, even broken strings when everybody sings, they only sting a bit.