It’s sin, I know, but it is my music.


I wouldn’t have it any other way. Deem me a heretic. Brand me a child of depravity but I am in love.

Lyrics, a dime a dozen. They only add to the mystery of what I was raised not to touch. And I must confess, as confession is good for the soul, I’ve heard the call from the door at the house on the corner of the street, and I’ve lost count, but inside the smoke and the warm colors titillate the senses like only dreams could hint.

Sensuality. It is sin, I know. But it is mine. Through music.

I seek no forgiveness.


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