Quiet Magic.

You know that moment when you open your sock drawer and that one sock that always used to be there: it’s gone. Just like that. Even though you’re sure you can’t have lost it. Where did it go? What happened to it? Did it just disappear? Was it launchable? Did it launch off to outer space?

 

Or that moment when you’re in France, looking up at the night sky, and it seems like the sound of the crickets and the dim light of the stars melt together. Like they have the same source. How they cover you like a blanket that makes the warm summer air vibrate with the possibility of life.

 

Or when you suddenly find yourself out on a park bench in a strange, foreign country and think: wow, how did I get here? How every decision up until then has led you to this point, and you suddenly realise how weird that is.

 

That’s the kind of magic our songs might be about. Not the flashy kind – you know, the fireworks and bangs, but quiet magic. The kind that makes you wonder. The benches in the park. The crickets and the stars. The launchable socks.

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