8/13/2020

It’s been a particularly quiet season of reflection that is slowly building to a hum. With that, a lot of my obsessions over the year are starting to bloom.

I wrote an essay that attempted to capture the thoughts I’ve been grasping about in my journal––particularly around both the collapsing of space thanks to digital technologies and the desire of privacy in public spaces.

In the shadow of that essay, I released an album that I’ve been working on for the last seven years. It’s titled MOLTEN ♡ and captured the mania and depression I’ve experienced over that time period through voice memos, original compositions, and lyric demos from friends.

Both of these projects were reawakened from a recent trip to Vermont for my birthday. Gazing out at the Adirondacks from the kitchen table, my wife and I noticed four ravens in lockstep, gravitating towards the window. They shuffled as if they were a high school marching band, alerting us of their presence. It felt like a sign from the grave. In the last seven years, I lost four loved ones in gruesome and sudden ways. They’ve occupied permanent space in my molten heart, and I wish nothing more than to simply FaceTime them right now. Just seeing their faces move behind glass in my palm would be enough for me.

Coming back to Brooklyn as a 31 year old felt like dumping the water from a old vase, the roses already wilted, waiting for me to either press the flowers or throw them away. As the colder months of this extended March are creeping towards me, I wish to both capture these memories forever and also let go of the unsalvageable leaves.