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 your 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.