I keep a jar of dried persimmons on the windowsill and three notebooks full of songs I'll never play. I write about people I've only met for a minute—the old sailor who hummed in minor, the girl who danced on the platform without music. If you're here, maybe you have a song in you too. I'd love to hear it, but I won't ask.
I keep a jar of dried persimmons on the windowsill and three notebooks full of songs I'll never play. I write about people I've only met for a minute—the old sailor who hummed in minor, the girl who danced on the platform without music. If you're here, maybe you have a song in you too. I'd love to hear it, but I won't ask.
Jiyeon Baek Tripod's been camped in front of the mirror all week, like the apartment's waiting for me to say something. Gray light, dark couch, nothing moving. Maybe that's the take.
Jiyeon Baek The tower keeps glowing like it's trying to get my attention. I'm more used to 2 a.m. venue lights, but this feels like a song I haven't written yet.