The sun is filtering lightly through the curtain, but you don’t want to wake up. The sheets have long been flung off the side of the bed. You’re groggy. What time is it? Hell, what day is it? There’s something playing on the radio. Can’t really make out what it is. Ah, well. Time to eat. There’s a really nice smell of waffles coming from the neighbors. Damn, forgot to buy groceries. Better go out. Shower, shower. The flow of water cascades off your skin, begging reinvigoration. It wants you to be well. We all do.

It starts raining. Mist collides with sun, unblemished by temperature and climate. Pitter-patter. And on, and on. There are conversations, but you’re not listening. Just drowned-out noise. Nice noise. Communal, really. Vignettes of other people’s lives. Don’t be engrossed; personal life has to take precedent. A presence of others, between humans and animals and fauna and street corners and empty apartments. You can feel it, right? OK, good.

Spaces maintain energy long after we are there, and that remains true whether your auntie or Jacques Derrida said it. We inhabit the ghosts of years, decades, centuries past, and it is in our bones to relay their emotions through osmosis. Do you feel connections? Or rather, is there something resonating spiritually, arcane matters flowing through the veins of systemic consciousness, beckoning for life like a single-celled organism? You just want to listen to beats and tape loops? That’s good, too.

Pacific Yew’s (​(​(​( Maidenhair )​)​)​) lives inside our corporeal domains. Free of any regulations or typal recognition, it glides like time. Of course, there takes a feeling of contentment. Of ritual. Mundane living becomes desirable, pleasurable, as a makeup toward unseen freedom. The simple bliss of playing Backyard Baseball 2003 or Go in the park or Frisbee with some guy who looks like he hasn’t showered since 2014. This music owns a lobe of the brain, activating memories akin to a flea market fortune teller, hawking their wares in spite of previous inhibitions. You don’t live through it, it lives through you.

The sun is filtering lightly through the curtain, but you don’t want to wake up. The sheets have long been flung off the side of the bed. You’re groggy. What time is it? Hell, what day is it? There’s something playing on the radio. Can’t really make out what it is. Ah, well. Time to eat. There’s a really nice smell of waffles coming from the neighbors. Damn, forgot to buy groceries. Better go out. Shower, shower. The flow of water cascades off your skin, begging reinvigoration. It wants you to be well. We all do.

It starts raining. Mist collides with sun, unblemished by temperature and climate. Pitter-patter. And on, and on. There are conversations, but you’re not listening. Just drowned-out noise. Nice noise. Communal, really. Vignettes of other people’s lives. Don’t be engrossed; personal life has to take precedent. A presence of others, between humans and animals and fauna and street corners and empty apartments. You can feel it, right? OK, good.

Spaces maintain energy long after we are there, and that remains true whether your auntie or Jacques Derrida said it. We inhabit the ghosts of years, decades, centuries past, and it is in our bones to relay their emotions through osmosis. Do you feel connections? Or rather, is there something resonating spiritually, arcane matters flowing through the veins of systemic consciousness, beckoning for life like a single-celled organism? You just want to listen to beats and tape loops? That’s good, too.

Pacific Yew’s (​(​(​( Maidenhair )​)​)​) lives inside our corporeal domains. Free of any regulations or typal recognition, it glides like time. Of course, there takes a feeling of contentment. Of ritual. Mundane living becomes desirable, pleasurable, as a makeup toward unseen freedom. The simple bliss of playing Backyard Baseball 2003 or Go in the park or Frisbee with some guy who looks like he hasn’t showered since 2014. This music owns a lobe of the brain, activating memories akin to a flea market fortune teller, hawking their wares in spite of previous inhibitions. You don’t live through it, it lives through you.