fifty one degrees with all the windows down
smiling, turning circles cruising through my little towns
drift around with no direction in mind
just got a beat on repeat and a head full of rhymes to align
when I'm at my best, I'm barely even doing it
just tuning in, radio receiver wrapped in human skin
almost see the song I'm expecting to hear
sketching everything I get while this connection is clear
that ember red when the sun has freshly set [yep]
that smell you get when the Spring's arrived but isn't ready yet
that first week that winter leaves is pure synaesthesia
a wake-up call to every living creature
a signal that's centuries old, just like that stone barn
still standing by the Jones farm next to the road
...these green mountains ground my soul and they ease my mind
this is all it means to be alive, well, at least tonight

sun is long gone, I'm still spinning, though
great soul music takes time and I kill 'em slow
still got those windows low because I'm built for this
thriving in the cold with the children of the wilderness
got a three county radius I'm playing with
paragraphs to pages, Jack Kerouac creative blitz
just painting pictures, puffing some instant arrogance
smoking weed as a grown man, shit's embarrassing
I'm just trying to make the illest art ...
the risk is how inspired and impaired exist a single inch apart
my process is a puzzle, I'm stubborn to the death
but yet I'll stumble off the second that it starts to be a struggle
you can't rush the hustle, no sense trying too much
my songs get definied by the lines that I decided to cut
rituals, sigils, trying to get a signal
and flip it into a single with SKYWISE on the sizzle, like...