Far From Harm
I always stay awake until the dawn breaks, the world hovering in that blue-grey pause where everything feels both lost and unfinished. The city is quieter at night, all the chaos behind stained glass and closed shutters. That’s where “Far from Harm” began—between sleep and surrender, where the ghosts are most patient and the heart can almost pretend it’s healed.
My mother used to burn rose petals and vinyl scraps for luck—said the smoke would carry songs through the walls and keep sorrow at bay. Sometimes I think the first chord I ever played was written in ash on our apartment’s peeling ceiling. This song pulls from that old memory, but also from the winters after she was gone—when silence grew heavy and hope became something you carried, even when it was all knives and cold breath.
I recorded the main vocal in one take, candle burning low, listening for a sign I was not alone. Guitars drifted through a cracked amp rescued from a church basement on Bleak Street. The field recordings underneath are night buses passing, the wind on Fenwick Avenue, and a single breath I took before stepping out into the freezing dark.
“Far from Harm” is the sound of realizing you can love what’s fading, and maybe that’s where the beauty lives—on the edges, in the bruise, in the hands reaching for a horizon that never quite arrives.
🩸 Spectra Noir