Home was anywhere with diesel gas, love was a trucker's hand
Misty Mountain, Carolina was never gonna feel like home to Jacoby Wise. Far as he could figure, it was pretty much fated to turn out that way. His earliest memories didn’t paint Misty Mountain in such a good light– the bone-chilling cold of a dark apartment without heat, the sloshing of green-tinted water in the bathtub, and the scratchy feeling of a throat that’d cried itself hoarse. Jacoby was left with his only inheritance on the kitchen counter: a moldy half-loaf of bread, a stained towel he’d been wearin’ as a swaddle, and a birth certificate declaring his name– both parents’ names conveniently scratched off it. He reckons they had somewhere real important to get off to.
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