because why not
sound of music
tape rewinders, dust settling on scruffy green carpet, playing with the colored cables connecting the tape player to the tv, scratchy couches, pillows with dents from leaning against them too long, sleeping bags spread out on the floor, running, singalongs in the car, going north, hour long road trips, heat touching metal, almost expired snacks, dead clocks pointing at 12.
billboards along the highway, giant cursive, displays lit up by city lights, previews during dinner time, kitchen chairs, scraping wooden floors, mangled earphones, old tablets on frozen laps, soft blizzard, power outs, darkness, studio headphones, piano keys, lamps a second after they’ve been turned off.
come from away
red lines streaming across youtube videos, laptops left on auto play, costco parking lots, thins brushing against old metal, sharp winds, winter coats, falling asleep in the winter sun, hiding music players in pockets and bags, recreation centers, worn tires, cold fake leather boots, miles of endlessly stretching roads.
his story the musical
five hour skype calls, headphones, screens glitching, synth machines at the music store, back alleys, overcast skies, left side bus seat, scenery blurring past the window, rosaries, thrown away bulletins, sitting on the hallway floor, spring, out of tune guitars, microphone stands, coat racks.
sneakers on tiptoe, jumping, paper, locked bedroom doors, hitting repeat for the hundredth time, giant glass windows, ballet studios, harmonies, half finished crackers, tired arm rests, battery at one percent, crowded parties, balcony railings, pigeons flying around in flocks, hair ties on wrist.
messy spotify playlists, hunching over on folding chairs, ink pens, crumpled up paper balls, furiously typing, crossed-legged sitting in the street, summer heat rising on old apartments, terrifying search histories, tabs reloading, scribbled over notebooks, running out of breath, velvet seats, craning upwards, hours spent disappearing.
dear evan hansen
ice rinks, jogging through the park, giant hill by the highway, growing leaves, quiet morning at the library computers, stairs, empty schools, neighborhood basketball hoops. giant tree roots, running through the woods, sunlight filtering through the leaves, tinted glass, recovery rooms.
in the heights
neighborhood plaza, backroads, driving past the racing track, volume button clicking upwards, eyes closing in the heat, tank tops, old houses, rain on cement, almost closed dollar stores, sitting directly next to the air conditioning, hugging giant blocks of ice, tossing yogurt cups in the freezer, isolation rooms, hospital hallways, bright lights, mental wards.
~while i’ve been preparing for the apocalypse, i’ve also been… writing my own musical *dramatic leg sweep*, jo~