Cross Your Heart, Baby ©

The story — in my words

I wrote this one while thinking about the physical weight of connection before everyone had a cell phone in their pocket. I was picturing this guy, covered in engine grease and road dust, standing in one of those old red glass booths that felt like a sanctuary from the heat. We cut the track to feel like that pulsing copper wire—steady, rhythmic, and just a little bit desperate. I wanted the sound of those silver dimes hitting the bottom of the coin slot to feel like a heartbeat. It’s about that specific anxiety of watching the sun go down through smudged glass, praying the operator doesn't cut the line before you can tell her you're finally coming home. It’s a blue-collar prayer for anyone who ever had to work a machine just to feed their soul.