It's night time here. The lamps are lit, the water of the St. Clair river laps at a lawn that's both pedicured and splashed with rocks of all shapes and sizes. The water tables are high this year.
By now, land and water are as black as both; the moon the only defining factor; lighting a path; showing the way. The air is heavy, yet cool; mosquitos thick and relentless.
Inside this house is a place I've been five times over, still figuring things out that have been five times my trouble. And I'm five years older.
"Show me how to light the match and warn me not to play with fire. But somehow I always... love it when you're sinful." This is the lyric my ears focus on over and over again.
"Sinful" is on repeat.
I need this right now.