There are some cold winds sweeping through many of the people that Texas songwriter Ramsay Midwood writes about. It's a bit of what their blood's made of. The odd thing there is that their blood runs so fucking hot. There are bones rattling there in the background, in the booths, in the haunts that they spend most of their time in. These are people who are bedeviled by the things they've done and the parts they've played. They've been all kinds of cads and culprits, but they're just emulating. They've been surrounded by others who have given them their bright ideas to play the roles of the dogs and the fall-down drunks. They've played those people, the ones who don't care while everything's happening, but who care immensely once the dust has settled a little bit and it's just them and their going-going-gone bottle. These are people who have a hard time sleeping because of the ghosts that they keep. They are people who tend to pass out instead of drifting off, as a lot of people are lucky enough to do.