25 August 2015



Darker nights spill ink across the sky and through gaps in the fences in the backyards of our houses. Darker nights spill ink that flows through the windows and blooms like flowers over all of the walls before falling like dying petals through the cracks in the floorboards to tell the basement a story about the summer that we lost and the winter that will come. Darker and darker still.

22 July 2014


The wind doesn't blow anymore. The wind doesn't blow and the trees can't breathe. And the heat will turn them into ash as the sun rises and falls, setting fire to the clouds that circle our heads and scramble our thoughts, dulling the senses, blurring the days into each other as we sit on our back steps, on our grass, on our walls, on our pavements, cross-legged, knees and ankles pricked with grit and dust and ash from the sky. Everything bleached with light, everything neon, everything harsh.

These days are long, they end at 11 and start again by 3. Blues through the window getting bluer by the hour, trailing the ocean into the night, headlights and searchlights and nightlights. Heartbeat in my hand. Static in my throat. The night air is never still, will never be still, it is more alive than you or I, it pulses, it cackles, it screeches like cats. In summer it sings to you from car radios and house parties, 5am, no varnish, no lies, taking off it's make-up to show you the other side of night. The tired side, the raw side, running with the wolves at dawn. Ear to the ground, listen for the sound of the sun trying to break through from where it was buried. Listen for the sound of Ophelia in the water, as we dive out of our windows and drown in bluest sky, reflections of each other, while the stars just sigh.

16 February 2014


Photobucket Photobucket Photobucket

In a fever, in a dream, in a haze. I saw the moon in an unfamiliar place, it was drinking the afternoon in until there was nothing left but darkness. The night always hums, the humming turns into a deafening silence as more and more people stop shuffling around their apartments or watching late night television with the flickering pictures lighting up the walls while the shadows come out to play.

Soon their dreams will cast a spell on them and they will be lost to the world, but we, we are the blue moon club. The secret society of sleepless shoegazers. With blue moons under our eyes strong enough to control the wildest tides. We catalogue our books until 3am. We play our guitars with wonky notes and tangle our tongues around nonsensical lyrics. We stare at the stars, counting, hoping for more to appear and if they do we'll make a note and whisper between ourselves because we know a secret about the heavens, and well, that's just as heavenly as it gets.

But the longer we stay the colder we grow and the cold will rattle our sleepy bones. Then we know it is time to go home.