this space is strange, and i am the stranger.
I boarded the plane to Idaho listening to jazz and returned listening to Phoebe Bridgers. A progression led by the realization that "home" felt different this time around. It was a feeling that the works of Etta James or Louis Armstrong could not speak to. No, for this, I needed the sounds of Phoebe crying "the end is here" to pair with the internalization that the end of "home" as I once knew it really was here.
twentythree
let’s set the scene: Nat King Cole is currently playing softly in the background, my studio apartment smells of dahlias and white roses, and there is an ever so soft glow beaming from a small glass lamp near the bay windows. now, I have your senses primed, your mind open, your breath calm.