The Golden Apples of the Sun feels like a spell cast in lo-fi warmth.
Each song whispers something ancient, half-remembered, like the echo of a dream you had as a child.
I return to it when I want to remember that music doesn’t have to impress — just reveal.
My dad teases me about how when I was a little kid, my favorite thing to do when I was on the landline phone with somebody—be it a relative or one of my best friends—was to breathlessly describe the things that were in my bedroom so that they could have a mental picture of everything I loved and chose to surround myself with, and where I sat at that moment in time. Perfectly Imperfect reminds me of that so thanks for always listening and for sharing with me too 💌
