Summer and smoke.
The rain keeps coming down. A part of me loves being locked inside. It’s when songs practically write themselves.
Even though it’s summer, the damp chill in the air last night made it possible for me to christen my fireplace. In moments like that, I don’t want anything else in the world.
There are a million more songs to write. Yet sometimes, I don’t mind giving my brain a break.
It’s still raining. And my hair still smells like fire.