Funny How Time Flies

Intro had a particular gift for making joy feel slightly mournful, and this song sits at the intersection of celebration and regret in a way that distinguishes it from straightforward slow jams. The production has the lush, keyboard-forward quality of early 90s New York R&B — warm synth pads that sustain underneath, a rhythm track that rolls forward with the casual confidence of something recorded at the right hour with the right people in the room. Harmonically the song is generous, moving through changes that reward close listening rather than punishing inattention. The vocals have a lived-in quality; the group sings like people who have genuinely experienced what they're describing rather than approximating it for commercial effect. There is a bittersweet thread running through the lyric about the strange acceleration of time inside a relationship — how seasons pass differently when you're inside something significant, how you look up and realize months have become years and years have become something you can't quite hold in both hands. It belongs to the brief window when New Jack Swing's energy was softening into something more reflective, when producers were learning to leave silence in the arrangement. You reach for this in the long, unstructured middle of a Sunday afternoon when time feels both plentiful and already disappearing.