Lush miniatures of domesticity. As quiet as eyelashes, serenity descends. Like awaking, for instance, to a white light before a windowpane. And turning to she who shares your sheets, a light impress in pleats and wrinkles embracing the one who left with morning. Yet, the familiar is everywhere textured with the soft presence of a shared space. A dance of dust spins through the streaming sunbeams. Here and there, crumpled colored tissues. The lace trim of mending. The shhimering grace of dawn. Not to forget the breeze that breathes elsewhere’s delight. Or the kettle still sweating with warmth. And delicately mist diffuses on the bathroom mirror. And the gentle passion in which one submerges these whims of morning’s glimmer, glow, brings a smile to the light. To do nothing but succumb.
The latest on Lillerne’s homely subdued is the faint exquisite Lying on the Farthest Side of Bed, the second release by Moscow’s Yaffle. The farthest side of your bed perhaps, when lying with its sensuous impressions of intimacy, you share softness with the dawn.
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