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.