Note: I can’t say for certain why I decided to share this now. Suppose writer’s don’t really need a reason do they? But as the final page of my book reads:
“To every lover, loved and lost, I may not always think of you but the pages do.”
Folklore is just one of those albums for me. An album that not only summons the things I’ve lost and people I’ve fallen out of touch with, but consequential moments that defined my early days as a poet. When listening to it, I’m right back in my 24 year old body—nearly four years ago—typing fervently on a 1940s Underwood. Time is a damn construct.
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