July 3 - Maybe Sprout Wings

For a summer day this is a cold song, cold and sitting in empty and foggy space.

What I get from this song is the ghosts of trauma. Voices in dreams that aren't really there and don't say what they said. Memories given form and distorted through the process. Those moments before dawn where the membrane between what you dreamed and what you think is at its thinnest.

There's someone I wake up with a lot who has a superstition, and when someone you love has a superstition, so do you. If they have a bad dream, they can't tell me about it until they've broken their fast. This is to guard against it becoming true. But if they've eaten something and they tell me about it, it gets put to bed.

The worst dream I remember having happened when I was asleep alone, with the person I usually wake up next to thousands of miles away. There was nobody in the flat with me, nobody whose regular breathing and warm presence would have told me that the dream wasn't real, that the men weren't coming for me, planning to do what they were planning to do. I had to get up in a dark flat and drink water and stay awake long enough for memory registers to tick over and let me safely go back to sleep.

It's dark when this happens. No matter how light it is outside, it's dark.