“Weeks” an album about the imprint of time

The visuals for Weeks come from a small patch of garden tucked inside the Edgewater stretch of Lincoln Park—a narrow, easily missed section of Chicago’s lakefront that somehow feels endless when you stop to look. I recorded video of this space over several weeks this summer that felt unusually full, almost suspended. When I walk past that same patch now, I can still feel the weight of those days—the imprint of time, even though it was only a matter of weeks.

The title is a metaphor for those stretches of time that expand while you’re viewing from the inside and in motion with the experience. When you’re living through them, they feel monumental and slow. Saturated. An entire season compressed into a few afternoons. You’re not usually aware of these times because you’re busy living and staying present. When they pass, you look back and realize it was just a moment. Weeks captures that dilation—how time can move both slowly and quickly, and how a brief stretch can still harden into something permanent.

Across the visuals, the flowers barely grow taller. Their height and shape stay roughly the same, yet the patch that houses them thickens—the space fills in. That slow, almost invisible growth mirrors the feeling of living through meaningful time: the outside may not change much, but density deepens within.

The first shot circles around a tree trunk, revealing a lush pocket of garden hidden just behind it. It’s a small space, but it holds depth—a metaphor for how even the smallest period of life can overgrow in meaning.

Musically, the album’s texture mirrors that world. The lofi tracks are layered and as humid as the Chicago summer, steeped in ambient recordings from the same space: a sprinkler misting over hosta leaves, wind brushing through stems, birds chirping in and out of frame. It’s vibrant but grounded, slow-moving but alive.

Listening to Weeks feels like sitting still in a place that is quietly, inevitably changing. Each track holds its own stillness and slight motion—a reminder that growth doesn’t always look like movement, and that even a few weeks can hold an entire chapter of life.