
A dusty, lo-fi collection of bedroom folk sketches. Murky tape hiss and skeletal drum machines frame Ed Droste's ghostly, intimate vocal harmonies.
It's like finding a dusty cassette tape of beautiful, sad songs in a thrift store bin.
A solitary, muffled ache that feels like watching the world through a frosted window.
The vocals lean notably further into gentle than the rest of the catalogue.
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