Craft Spells


This music is you: Calm. No, not calm, composed.

No. This music is a place. A place you carry with you on your phone on your pillow. It is the heated to an unknown temperature–boiling, and steeped for 4 minutes. Disposable, fillable, paper teabags dipping, like bodies fit together no space for air in between. Like tea and an open cavity in your chest. It’s a place that smells like dog and never gets cold. Not a dog–like can’t stand to touch our face, oily kind of dog– You know what I mean. Just dog. Like–always having someone to sit on your feet–smell of dog. And sometimes it feels cold, but just enough to turn the tips of your nose, never enough to shiver. Where your goosebumps cultivate in layers of blankets and you water them with kisses. One on the forehead to germinate philosophy, It’s always goosebump season. Moist. It’s a place you can call upon when you want to, and you always know what you are going to get.