The last song, and its intention to be the patron song for all false prayers of the hungover, pale to Blind Willie Johnson's quick blues clomp and the vision that it invokes. The rawness of his holler and the ferocity at which he does so forces the listener to believe that not only is he running to the city of refuge, but that he has done so myriad times for more miles than any one could imagine.

This song is dedicated to the legion of middle age black women that we see riding the Red line into the Loop every morning, all of them intently focused on their large black bibles. Sun crests over the cityscape and streams over their floral printed dress, lighting their tired, soft cheeks and the pages of their good books to a luminescent glow. Their faces hint of a slight smiling at various portions of a book whose ending they know, and know so well that they realize it is worth reading over again until the sun erases all the dark lines of building and the silhouettes of people until there is nothing left but movement and light. The sight of such self-contained stillness in public transit soothes the pain of a hangover into a straight line of longing. Our head against the scratch-bombed train window, the sunshine no longer pains us, but we wonder what it was we were looking for last night. If people can ascend to angels, these are they, and if those transcendents sing songs, this is the one.