familie

There are songs that are like a trip on an old bus - the kind where the seats creak and cities flash by outside the window while quiet thoughts accumulate inside. There are no loud declarations of love in them, but there is a desire to show important landscapes, to share something of oneself - something so fragile that words seem too big.

Here, love feels like movement: it carries you, transports you, sometimes confuses routes, and sometimes turns a stranger's hand into a familiar address. And even when the story seems like a draft, there are small memorials left behind - moments, smells, places to which the heart returns. All of this is a little tired, a little light, like the morning light in the back window of a bus that keeps going, even if it's not entirely clear where.