My compendium of sleepless nights is mostly febrile, drenched in wiki-dumpster diving and inchoate thoughts, relieved only by brief moments of clarity. In one such moment last year I discovered the music of Ghostly Kisses, named after a line in William Faulkner’s poem, Une ballade des dames perdues: “And brush my lips with little ghostly kisses.” The debut album – Heaven, Wait – was my entry point, waxing and waning between heavy synth beats and stripped-down classical arrangements to aestheticise the themes of transition and rebirth, written about reflecting on difficult times from a more grounded present. “Heartbeat” for instance captures the insecurities of young love; “Carry Me” looks at the people lost along the way.
/
I couldn’t sleep tonight. Margaux’s ethereal voice continued to hang softly in the air long after the concert ended. But as dawn broke, I sensed the trees shiver with the anticipation of spring.