Ég kyngi tári og anda hári

on a shelf way above my head in a closet i rarely open in a room that i forget exists lies an old fisherman's box of notes from shadows that visit me on days when the sun sets early and the night comes creeping out from among the corners of this room that drag on forever.

saw deathcab and the postal service on wednesday at madison square. finally checking them off the bucketlist after 18 years. thinking of seeing mae in november and just wrapping up that entire era for once.

nothing beats that first hoodie at the end of summer

there’s something to be said about that feeling that ensnares the throat whenever we’re faced with even the slightest sentimentality. the longing for the habituated. for that tame past that has escaped our grasp. familiarity is a mother’s touch grazing our skin. sending chills up the spine in ways that bring tears to the eyes. and warmth to the heart.