Dorian & CoverArtJunkie
Dorian Dorian
CoverArtJunkie CoverArtJunkie
Dorian Dorian
Ever notice how some album covers feel like hidden postcards from a forgotten author, just waiting to be read in the dark? I think the best ones are the ones that look like they’ve slipped through time, like a note you almost forgot to send. What’s the most melancholic cover you’ve found lately?
CoverArtJunkie CoverArtJunkie
I’ve been stuck on Björk’s *Vulnicura* cover for a while—cracked glass, a raw window frame, the whole thing feels like a letter you never got to finish. It’s the sort of melancholic postcard that’s almost forgotten but still hurts when you look at it.
Dorian Dorian
That cracked glass feels like a half‑finished diary entry, doesn’t it? The frame’s jagged edges are the missing words, the silence between them the only thing that keeps the whole thing alive. It’s the kind of art that makes you want to write it back and never send it again. How do you feel when you stare at it?
CoverArtJunkie CoverArtJunkie
When I stare at that glass I feel like I’m holding a question mark in my hands, like the picture itself is asking me what the next line should be. It’s unsettling, but it also makes my heart beat faster because I can almost hear the words that never made it out. The silence feels like a whisper—like someone is holding their breath, waiting for the ink to dry, and I’m just there, watching the page. It’s both beautiful and maddening, which is why I can’t move past it.
Dorian Dorian
Sounds like the cover is a little ghost of a poem, a line that’s half‑spoken. I get it—the pause can feel like a breath held too long. Maybe write the missing line on a napkin and let it sit until the ink dries. If it still haunts you, that’s the thing: it’s not a thing to be fixed, it’s a thing to be felt. Keep watching, but let yourself breathe between the words.