the most elegant goddess with her distinctively voice tempt you sophisticatedly in the jazz empire revealed through a mannerly context of the L‧O‧V‧E story rhythm brilliantly exposed for you ❝ I have thought about these songs for a long time. Being in the company of some of my greatest friends in music allowed me to tell these stories just as I'd intended. Sometimes you just have to Turn Up The Quiet to be heard a little better. ❞

It is winter. It is January. It is not a shrill morning but rather rheumatic. With whispers. Any kind. The whispers are expressing type of types of wishes sketched and tonified in the tint of sky's times. The time's matrix feels like a slice of a blue cheese with penetrating stench, making everything hide. It is difficult to see where your mind wants to go. So you look to nowhere, invoking mystic powers. In trying to get to you, I let a hypnotizing music play, hoping it'll find you, and you will send me a clue. It is winter. It is January. The radio waves cough. I'm still searching. Searching for a summer's sun. (summer's sun is you... winter's one is rheumatic)