I drove almost for an entire day earlier this week. Where I went, doesn't matter. Upon arriving home, an innocuous parcel lay by my front door. I picked it up, put it inside, and no sooner than I put it down, I left the house again. 

I went to dinner, and ate far too much food. I walked home in the chilly winter breeze, a belly too full of food. The parcel awaited on the kitchen table. 

Safely ensconced under a blanket, I opened the parcel. Within - something I wasn't expecting to arrive for quite some time - <em>Useless Magic</em>, by Florence Welch; a collection of lyrics, and poetry. 

Pictured below, with my CD collection, <em>Useless Magic</em> is a well manufactured book, in hard cover, with an inset print on the front, and an embossed blurb:

![20180720_101641.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmU4mdFwSQ2P5MtcZxzUnDCC7pgLXYMC8j5PqNbfDKur39/20180720_101641.jpg)

<blockquote><em>"Songs can be incredibly prophetic, like subconcious warnings or messages to myself, but I often don't know what I'm trying to say till years later. Or, a prediction comes true and I couldn't do anything to stop it, so it seems like a kind of useless magic."</em></blockquote>

Printed in full colour, <em>Useless Magic</em> contains illustrations, notes, and scraps scanned from the mind of Welch. There's an array of renaissance and pre-raphealite painting, along with a mixture of glamorous, and un-glamarous photographs of Welch and other things relevant to her penmanship. 

<div class="pull-right">https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmQCPxL8whFPk2uiXS72oSxEhsuYGdu9vvAuTLhd5Lc6vF/20180720_101456.jpg</div>There's a lot of text here, and a lot of chaos. It is very similar to Kurt Cobain's published journals; but this seems very curated. There's too many pictures for my liking; and not enough of that "useless magic", pen scrawled maniacally over various types of paper - lined, blank, hotel pads, and there's even details of crayons, and art created by Welch herself.<br/><br/>

There's definitely more lyrics than poetry within, with a short explanation from Welch stating that she's not quite sure what makes a song not a poem, and a poem not a song. 

The collected lyrics are presented well, with sketches, doodles, and other illustrations alongside, giving a glimpse to early inspiration that formed the final music. 

<div class="pull-left">https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmatWYBSjb7ehBNLrcVDZCvrBZ9cnTRQjTgFoRWJ615fLU/20180720_101537.jpg</div>It's a great insight into the mind of a writer, with the unpolished, raw, hand-written content on show here something incredibly intriguing. Thumbing through the pages, you feel as though you've had the opportunity to eavesdrop on something deeply personal.<br/><br/>

It's great - if you're a die hard fan; but if you're not, what you'll find is the scribbled lyrics of a song-writer, along with well type-set lyrics. 

It's ironic in that publication of the lyrics, ephemeral notes, song, and flurries of instrument become ever so slightly immortalised. The book seems to have a much stronger sense of permanence than the music from which it was drawn.