Paul Macca brings me to places when I listen to his tunes. Right now Junk is blaring through my earphones and I see myself in an empty house with shiny wooden floors watching the barefoot twirler’s reflection through the planks. She pivots gracefully around the room. Her light colored curls brush soflty against her damp cheeks. The sunset that bounces off her forlorn face creates a sepia feel in the entire picture. She continues to circle her way across the space. The loneliness that pierced her shines in her eyes but it’s as if she’s finding comfort in her solace at the same time.
There’s something enigmatic, almost ghostly yet familiar about the girl. And as I was trying to pinpoint what it was, I made a mistake of blinking. After half a second, the twirler was gone. The hazy glow that once lit the room became more blurred and I find myself barefoot, dancing in tiptoes across the empty room.