Sometimes you’re wake up and you’re 23 years old. How many of those 23 year olds wake up middle of fucking no where Alaska. Literally, most people have never heard of where you are and if they have it’s because they want to fuck under the ‘aurora’ northern lights to produce the most intelligent son. And this in only the 2nd time you've woken in the middle of nowhere Alaska, just more north this time.
It’s 6 degrees on the reg, 35 is a treat in disguise. Everything re-awakens as if it were Spring, but Winter hasn’t even begun. The fresh snow melts like the ravens are returning in mass.
This is why we’re all so confused here. Stuck between hibernation and rutting season. +2 Alaskan points if you know what rutting season even means. You’re guess it bout right. The fiddle feels your frustration. 35 isn’t even the beginning of what’s grown before in these dead months, or what’s to come. Hallelujah bye and bye you won’t be able to fly away. Just let the next one buy you a brew to see how far down they have to wait for the next, you don’t even ask them to fall in line.
That touch on every girls waist, the unwanted one but not nudged away one, that each has felt and known, but who doesn’t like a free beer kind. The ones who offer, ‘I just want to buy you a beer’ is the first line but the true intentions are hidden under that newly frozen snow line.
First time I met you it wounded my heart.
The banjo is the only thing that makes us feel the valued few much of anything.
Look at these nails I carry on my hand. Kept up with intention.
Gospel sounds more real in the dead degrees. Like sick loving lines.
I was serious before your attention and intentions broke and became clear. Like ice with all the fish trapped under there.
It’s 6 degrees on the reg, 35 is a treat in disguise. Everything re-awakens as if it were Spring, but Winter hasn’t even begun. The fresh snow melts like the ravens are returning in mass.
This is why we’re all so confused here. Stuck between hibernation and rutting season. +2 Alaskan points if you know what rutting season even means. You’re guess it bout right. The fiddle feels your frustration. 35 isn’t even the beginning of what’s grown before in these dead months, or what’s to come. Hallelujah bye and bye you won’t be able to fly away. Just let the next one buy you a brew to see how far down they have to wait for the next, you don’t even ask them to fall in line.
That touch on every girls waist, the unwanted one but not nudged away one, that each has felt and known, but who doesn’t like a free beer kind. The ones who offer, ‘I just want to buy you a beer’ is the first line but the true intentions are hidden under that newly frozen snow line.
First time I met you it wounded my heart.
The banjo is the only thing that makes us feel the valued few much of anything.
Look at these nails I carry on my hand. Kept up with intention.
Gospel sounds more real in the dead degrees. Like sick loving lines.
I was serious before your attention and intentions broke and became clear. Like ice with all the fish trapped under there.
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