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Augusta, GA (Acoustic/Digital Bonus) - Into It. Over It.
Flipping through the pages of our diary,
A memoirs worth of messages from you and me,
Both good and bad advice
Recalling should haves
And could haves.
A distance from both
Of our worst enemies.
On this page,
Mississippi John Hurt plays,
With a hand on my neck
And a hand around my waist.
It causes trouble and
I've had it all
With these slowdancing Sundays.
Some red wine, a summerdress,
A pair of handrolled cigarettes
We're descriptive to keep
With descriptions.
We're convicts to lack of conviction.
So, skip to the back and read the index.
Put your trust in
The dust sleeves of hardbacks,
Because it's as fleeting as
The feeling of being 18 again.
I've turned the tables.
It's your house in Georgia now.
We're seeming stable despite mistakes
That we'd allow.
Can't blame the past this time around,
So please don't make a sound because
I'm shaking hands with common sense.
I'm bridging gaps from innocence to versed.
I'm telling you, we're cursed,
Flipping through the pages our diary.
