There are some men and women who deserve one another. There are some men and women who just found their match in the other. There are some men and women who are meant to always need to pick their battles, even while they're barely winning the war. They are just going to have to go along with the swells of their hearts and they're going to have to accept that their shocks are shot every time they speed down a pocked gravel road, devil and rust bucket be damned. They will enjoy the momentary lapses in pain and suffering during those smoothed out interludes, but they'll soon find that the difference will be made up.
They won't be without their oldest friend. They cater to their foils. They are inviting to the bumps, bruises and shattered windows. They are intimate with their stains and scars and instead of seeing them as blemishes, they view them as their beloved bedfellows. These are people who get their bells rung by love and life and yet they get right back up and get drunk again on the crystal blue eyes of both, immediately thereafter. It's not that don't learn to control themselves - it's just that they'd really rather not. It would make for uneventful nights and days that are simple and bland.
The worlds that the characters in Dustin Smith & The Sunday Silos live in are those where there are no forgotten kisses and home is always reachable, but infrequently reached. These are people whose hearts get "addicted to everything," as Smith sings on this session. He makes the claim sound like a real affliction. There are no excuses or apologies made. These are people who dig their own graves - which sometimes look and feel nothing like graves, but more like penthouses. They give their hearts and souls away and there are always two very different ways that can go. They stroll around in both directions.