We tell you we have to go to moon, to Mars, to some distant place, to the farthest reaches of the cosmos. We tell you we will be cold there. It is cold in the sky, out amidst the stars. We reach for your hand, you reach for our hand…
Florals? For spring? We know. It's groundbreaking. Still, we invite you to follow us down the garden path, we invite you to admire these roses, to pick one. Reach down. Mind the thorns. Mind the teeth.
We wear black. Not just sometimes. All the time. We wear black and when we do we wear it to stand out, not to blend in. We celebrate Halloween all year because, yes, we are the weirdos, mister, and when October comes we listen to the classics, we turn them up loud, we return to our roots, we dye them black.
We palm this mixtape to you in the hallways, sneak it into your locker, your backpack. We want you to listen to it your hand-me-down car, to pipe it through your headphones between classes. It is the soundtrack to the greatest teen witch movie that never was. We have imagined it and now it is yours in two pieces: Side A and Side B.
We return again with an offering. Take these words, these images, these sounds. Use them, my friend, as you suffer the long winter. Distract yourself with all our pretty trinkets, all the treasures we have collected for you.
These are the sounds of Grimoire #1. They are auditory hallucinations, sonic renderings of the spells we want to cast in our writings and the moods we want to feel when we read. They are clouds of noise and chilly fragments and longing and possession and moments that have been burned around the edges. Press play. We dare you.