We are down south, in an unfinished basement just a short golf cart ride off the Trail of Tears. On the darkest day in June, a bird takes a fatal flight into a window thinking it is almost clear. Sometimes the pain is undetectable. Sometimes you can do anything. Sometimes the kisses taste like flame.

This record is for that - for the rides lost down Baker Street, for the unreaped seeds planted in your sleep, and for the times you’ve been bad to your baby. This record is not a cure - the boiled peanuts are soggy and the barbecue is bland; but, they feed you and make you forget. You are beautiful. You have not yet smashed into the proverbial window that will kill you without warning.

Namaste.