In November of 2020, I recorded a demo of "Randy" by Big Thief. It came together in less than an hour––I was alone in my bedroom with one microphone. It was little more than a keyboard bassline and a handful of vocal tracks. Masterpiece, the album that "Randy" comes from, was keeping me very good company at the time, as was Transangelic Exodus by Ezra Furman (two incredible albums by supremely honest, thoughtful artists––guiding lights when it comes to the act of making things). I was going for long evening walks, listening on repeat underneath a halo of orange streetlights against deep blue almost-night. It began to feel very important to sing these songs myself. They're not mine, but they speak to me in a way that makes me want to reply.

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In the months after that, new songs became companions and I recorded similar demos of these––equally sparse and flimsy––until enough versions came to pass that they started to stand on their own. (Thankfully, I have friends and family who are more skilled than I am on different instruments who have been willing to play, and others who have been present for every version, every edit, who offered their ears and opinions. I'm really grateful for their help, and for their thoughts during the whole process.)

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I think that one of the most important things I am is a fan. Little pieces of ourselves are archived in the albums that we love: time capsules of experience, ways our lives have been saved or ruined or otherwise changed. This is my offering to some of the songs and artists that have found places in my life.

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What's it like to breathe in?

Your heart, it looks just like mine––

waiting for the day when it all comes falling down,

does each day just feel like another lie?

I used to think I was the only one.

Why would you lie? Why would you lie about how you feel?