if as an outsider i'm allowed to dream about the soul of america, i might dream of roscoe holcomb, singing while barely moving his mouth, an island of angular hat and tie amongst a bunch of slouching besweatered admirers. he's incredibly hard, like a man that never stops concentrating, but yeah, you know he's melancholic and wondering about the what-ifs. i dont know how you couldnt love such a person.