h. pruz

YOUR BACK IS TURNED TO A KALEIDOSCOPE OF GREEN AND BLUE, THUNDERING WAVES DROWNING A TREE LINE THAT VANISHES INTO THE HORIZON. [TURN BACK] [𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑹] YOU VENTURE TO ENTER THE ENCHANTING DERELICTION. THE DOOR SWINGS OPEN BEFORE YOUR PALMS PRESS AGAINST THE FLAKING PAINT, ANTICIPATING YOUR ARRIVAL. A NOISE RIPPLES TOWARD YOU. THE GENTLE, MEANDERING MEW OF A CAT, SO INDISCERNIBLY SOFT IT COULD HAVE BEEN THE CREAKING OF A CUPBOARD. A ROCKING CHAIR REMAINS IN PERPETUAL MOTION, EMPTY, PROPELLED, AS IF THROUGH PREDESTINATION – A LINGERING VITALITY OF A LOVE THAT ONCE BOUNCED ALONG THE STILL-STANDING FRAME OF THE HOUSE. [LEAVE] [𝑻𝑨𝑲𝑬 𝑨 𝑺𝑬𝑨𝑻] THE WALLS COME TO COLOR AS A MEMORY COMES TO FILM. LIGHT LEAKS INTO THE SCAFFOLDING OF A LIFE NEARLY ABANDONED, FILLING THE ROOM. THROUGH THE WINDOWS YOU CAN SEE A RED SKY. THE AIR INSIDE IS THICK, CHARGED WITH A WARNING… NO ONE WAS HERE, BUT HAD THEY JUST LEFT? OR WERE THEY SOON BACK? [𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑼𝑬] If Hannah Pruzinsky's debut record No Glory represented a sinking into a new love with a wide-eyed and vulnerable abandon, Red sky at morning (co-produced with Felix Walworth of Florist and Told Slant) reckons with the calm after the torrent, the future it may represent, and the past it may unearth.