So much of our lives are scheduled. We mourn the lack of interlude, lament the promising lull of nothing to do.

Consider yourself the moon’s caretaker, and you will understand how I felt on that hill.

Early Refrains (A Rediscovery of Sorts)

I didn’t realize that my grandmother enjoyed music until I was eleven years old.

You came so far & you still made it here, she says, & I am thinking of a migration of birds exhaling into feathers.

Enter: Sound / On Reusing Music

If someone asks me to imagine the word forget, I think of walking to the outer dorms on a rainy day.

Disquiet

It has always been a tenuous thing, your ability to tolerate your surroundings.

A Darker Color

Every street in Paris is layered in songs. Every street in Paris is layered in ghosts.

V: Cadenza | Searchlight Song: "Stop Time"

Wait. Miles Davis is on. That’s half the picture right there. His muted trumpet braids silver around my veins.

The story is the same always: one of you leaves first & you both know who it’s going to be.

The music jumps, cuts, flourishes in a way I don’t attempt to map out, recognizing the particular logic of feel.