” – I’m a sucker for shared showers and slow mornings.”
It was nothing really. I’ve only left one song and one experience richer. One song was probably worth it.
“But really now, fuck it.”
It’s amazing how often I think songs are perfect, have no bigger dreams for them than they have for themselves, no internal rhythms which jar with theirs. Occasionally I like a song and it goes wrong for me, veers off track (Little Dragon’s ‘Wildfire’, for example, so nearly perfect but for its thin pre-chorus bleeping). But right now I’ve found another one which gets it spot-on.
‘White Rum’ has stolen me from the last few days, taken hours I could have been working and turned them into flurries of creation, of poetry in a new and inauthentic voice, a recurring mild wistfulness.
“Let’s touch toes, see where that goes. Fuck it, love.”
The whole week has pulled together into this track’s light strings, harmonics and slow start. I’ll probably never be able to extricate it from its circumstances of discovery, and that’s fine, because I’ll be over it all in a week.
“So like nothing you could die from it.”