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It wouldn’t make you feel any better, I suppose, if I told you that I’ve been writing a lot lately? How about if I added that I’ve been reading in like amount?

No? I hadn’t thought so.

Uggh.

Well, I promise to try to do better in future. Will that do?

Maybe my limbs are made
mostly for decoration,
like the way I feel about
persimmons. You can’t
really eat them. Or you
wouldn’t want to. If you grab
the soft skin with your fist
it somehow feels funny,
like you’ve been here
before and uncomfortable,
too, like you’d rather
squish it between your teeth
impatiently, before spitting
the soft parts back up
to linger on the tongue like
burnt sugar or guilt.
For starters, it was all
an accident, you cut
the right branch
and a sort of light
woke up underneath,
and the inedible fruit
grew dark and needy.
Think crucial hanging.
Think crayon orange.
There is one low, leaning
heart-shaped globe left
and dearest, can you
tell, I am trying
to love you less.

– Ada Limón

So. Passion Pit. Manners. I’m embarrassed that it took me so long to give these guys a listen, but over the last month or so, I haven’t been able to quit this album. And frankly, I shouldn’t want to.

This song, which I blipped yesterday, is one of my favorites on the album. Why am I posting it here? Well, it played as Taters, Lady Taters, Volyu and myself drove through a sunny Saturday morning (to what would be a delicious brunch), and it perfectly framed the satisfaction I felt in that moment, how completely right things are.

My face blew up at such a casual sight,
The smattered colors of ecstatic fright,
The rush above me to oblivion
Outlining wet sidewalks in halogen.

Have you ever felt so goddamned strong?
How come it takes some people so damn long?
He turned to squeeze the lemon juice to rain,
The citrus drawing out the scene in stains…