Detailed observation, fevered imagination, driving momentum, narrative style and dark intensity by the alternative electro-pop artist from Wivenhoe, Essex mark this title track from her latest, third album out on Future Paradise. A songwriter who plays keyboards and guitar, who gained musical education from the BRIT school, her influences include Leonard Cohen and Suzanne Vega, and her style has echoes of Handsome Boy Modelling School.
To enjoy and purchase more of her music including tracks Sphere and Avalanche, here website is here.
Off-white walls, pale blue skirting
The light green speckled floor squeaks
As people rush past from one moment to the next
These sounds become more familiar
Hums, bleeps, whirrs, and sadness
I'm hungry
The plastic chair in front of me is slightly stained
I wonder how many people have sat in that chair
Staring at the clock, then the ceiling
Then the floor, the wall, then back to this ceiling
There is no sunshine on this ceiling
This ceiling is cold
The strip lighting shows every line and wrinkle
Every twinkle of fear, every harsh reality of life
Laid out naked for every stranger to see
Not that anyone cares to look too deep
There is a polite distance behind people's eyes
The small TV in the corner is playing Channel Two
Crackling occasionally whilst the aerial balances precariously on top of it
Even the aerial wants to die in this place
Fall into the abyss of milky green vinyl flooring
Never to be seen again
What an unromantic way to go
To get swept up and thrown out
With all of the other inane mechanical objects we don't need
I like to think all broken machines end up in the North Pole
Where some magical man finds them in the snow
Fixes them up lovingly, polishes every scar
Tightens every screw and then as good as new
They are ready to be packaged and distributed
Throughout all major territories by winter
Only to get ripped apart on Christmas Day
By a six-year old with a marker pen
I was that kid
I liked to watch the cogs turning under the plastic cover
Rather then marvel at the pretty lights on the surface
Those lights that took so long to perfect
In that magical snowy haven far away from here
I stop feeling every so often, I am told this is normal
Even the art makes me feel empty
Prints of perfect trees with perfect leaves in emerald green
And lined up imperfectly across sickly lemon yellow walls
Directly in front of me an abstract painting
Of a woman holding a small child in her arms
Somebody clearly did not think this through
Channel Two is still playing in the corner of the room
It seems the rest of the world is still carrying on as normal
Is it just me here in this moment?
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