Litchfield drove down Maudlin Road; with Hank Williams on the tapedeck singing I'm a rollin' stone, all alone and lost. For a life of
sin, I have paid the cost. When I pass by, all the people say – just another guy on the Lost Highway. He had a bottle of Holy Ghost
resting on the passenger seat. He drove fast, fast, toward Baltimore – he thought. This was after the end of the world; street
signs and directions no longer meant anything. There was fog that night, thick, green and toxic – past the farmhouses and trees,
the land dropped into nothingness. Litchfield drove down Maudlin Road, drinking the Holy Ghost. He drove fast, fast – there
were no other cars on the road, only the occasional flickering neon of a speakeasy. He was going to Baltimore, to see his baby.
Only thing to find out was if Baltimore was still there; if his baby was even alive.
Driving, driving fast. The foggy night is vast. And the darkness falls at the end of day, when you're driving down that Lost
Highway. Past the farmhouses, the speakeasies, the trees, and he's drinking the Ghost, saying: Baby, please. I'll be there soon,
what can I say? I found myself on the Lost Highway.