Tuesday Mornin ©

The story — in my words

I wrote this during a particularly bleak winter in a drafty apartment where the only sound was the church bell down the block. I was stuck in that strange, suspended animation you feel when you’re waiting on a message or a word from someone who might never send it. We cut the track to feel like that thin, cold coffee mentioned in the first verse—spare and a little bit bitter. I wanted to capture the exact moment when the weekend's promise officially dies and the reality of a gray Tuesday sets in. It’s about that specific kind of urban isolation where you’re surrounded by the hiss of buses and the tolling of hours, yet you’re completely alone with your thoughts, just waiting for the sun to hit the wall.