The last family that we read about in Ray Bradbury's classic book of collected passages, "The Martian Chronicles," is one that's supposed to exist some 15-20 years still from now, even as Bradbury wrote the book in the early 1950s. It's a man and his wife and their young sons, all from Minnesota, after having just fled Earth and its wars, arriving on a dead planet of Mars. Everyone on Earth was dead because of the man-made wars and Mars - a colony that had been settled and built up into a spectacular place by those escaping the ills of Earth - was deserted because all those on it felt inclined to answer the call to arms and return to Earth to fight in the war that all of their friends and loved ones were fighting in back home. This family had hid a rocketship and instead of turning it over to the government for its war efforts, they kept it, filled it with food, lied to the boys - telling them that they were going to Mars on a fishing expedition and chartered the thing to the next planet away from the one killing itself.
Upon arriving on Mars, the father blows up the rocket, making it impossible for their ever to be a return trip back to Minnesota. It leads to hysterics in one of the children and excitement in the others, for the "game" that they were all playing just got wilder. The children are told that they will be allowed to choose whichever abandoned city they'd like to live in, as all of this is theirs now - without a single soul to claim otherwise. They're also told that there was one other family from back home that had stowed away a rocket. It was a family that consisted of a mother and father and an entire family of girls. This was to be the makings of the repopulation of Mars. They whispered through the empty cities, for the vacant streets and buildings seemed to force it upon a person, this acute sense of needing to stifle any natural loudness. The books ends with the father promising his sons that he'll show them some real Martians and he takes them to a pool of water and tells them to look down at the reflections painted on the surface. There were the Martians.
In a way, the songs that Midnight Juggernauts front man Vincent Vendetta sings - in his musty baritone, hairy-chested voice - are of a similar mindset. There's a gigantic void that he tries to fill. There is a sense that nothing will be enough to fill it and then it becomes a scene like the one that he paints in "Into The Galaxy," where he asks to be rolled - dead or alive, it's not quite clear, but it seems as if this is a story about being laid to rest - to the edge of the world, to the end of the sea and to be allowed to just keep rotating, right off into the place where time and space are impartial, where we can presume weightlessness and less worries.