Summer Porch Conversations

(Soft, warm analog synth slowly swelling into the foreground) (The faint sound

of Montreal traffic out the window) (A delicate acoustic guitar begins to

pick a hopeful melody)

Sunlight hitting the kitchen tile,

warm and slow Slicing fresh tomatoes just to watch the colors glow

Thinking 'bout the workshop down by Jean-Talon street Where the art on

the canvas and the shadow work meet I've been learning the drums,

trying to find the right beat Trying to get my spirit back

down to my feet Taking the pain and turning it to paint

Trading in the sinner just to draw the saint.

(The drum kit enters softly with jazz brushes) (Vocals: Breathy,

close to the ear,

deeply honest) Got the files all rendered,

ready to upload Taking our time on this heavy-hearted road Word of

words, word... Word, word,

word... Meow, meow, meow,

meow, meow—let the truth be heard.

(The synths open up into a massive,

beautiful ambient expanse)

'Cause we’re finally ready to make them believe!

Wearing all the magic right here on our sleeve From the concrete

of Rosemont up to the sky We don't need a reason to

give it a try It’s the forty-one,

forty-two, sixty-seven Building our own little ground-level heaven Yeah,

the canvas is messy,

but the colors are true And everything is,

unequivocally, tiguidou.

(Stripped back to just the acoustic guitar and a low sub-bass heartbeat)

Got Jordyn in the cockpit,

charting the map Mosa laughing in the background,

closing the gap Got Bianca and Matilde keeping the tether tight Making

sure we don't float away in the night We’re packing up the

pink plush bag for the ride

Got nothing left to fear,

got nothing left to hide.

(A cinematic, Jon Hopkins-style electronic build.

Stuttering percussion and gorgeous,

weeping synth chords) Is this what it feels like?

When the distributor finally clears the track?

When you send out the signal and the universe sings right back?

Meow. (Maximum emotional release,

choir harmonies, absolute triumph) 'Cause we’re finally ready to make them believe!

Wearing all the magic right here on our sleeve From the concrete

of Rosemont up to the sky We don't need a reason to

give it a try It’s the forty-one,

forty-two, sixty-seven

Building our own little ground-level heaven Yeah,

the canvas is messy,

but the colors are true And everything is,

unequivocally, tiguidou. (Music slowly fades into the sound of a drumstick tapping

the rim

of a snare drum) Word of words.

Distributing the signal. Tiguidou.

(Soft click. Silence.)