I wrote this album over the past year––a bleak but transformative period of time. This work became an extraverbal expression of my interior experience. With that in mind, I decided not to write about it myself. Instead, I asked my dear friend to reflect on her listening of the record. Poet Aristilde Kirby writes:
Flower branches dowsing rod against their doubles in the wind’s aimless static.
Spindled fog verglas plants, caressed by white rays of absolute eyelash.
“The innermost of all voices centers her poise like mist blankets over morning grass. The blood gallops like cut yew flower in traced stampede dialects for thaw-flecked resonance.”[Avalanche reverberations boil time’s marrow & glow with Aaliyah tape drone] Choose yourself. Don’t be scared to live again. Now, I am dusting a concord grape with my being’s clear lymph before I eat it.