Sunlight in January. Winter blue.
Sunlight through the window. Slanted and keeping time, sliding up the wall.
Sunlight in the afternoon. Last dying breath of day. Rush out and feel. See your breath. Retreat.
Sunlight. As gentle as a mother’s touch. On a hot forehead in a dimly lit room. As gentle as that.
Sunlight in foreign tongues: German, Italian, and French. In Texas.
Sunlight in underheated rooms and breezes that seep. Listen to Elliott Smith. Light a scented candle. Sip coffee or flavored tea. Visit Chicago on the weekend.
Sunlight and a new dawn of a new day. Imagine a fresh start. Imagine what tomorrow looks like.
Sunlight and I’m romantic, living inside of the harmonies of Kings of Convenience, retreading the past in small degrees. Single digits.
There is little that needs to be said about this song, or about this artist. A solitary female voice. Bass accompaniment. One against/amongst the world. The fire that burns here is smoldering, but persistent, and no less dangerous to the touch.