Under the streetlamp, a moth sketches circles in the thin amber. The night smells faintly of rain and warm dust. A bus sighs, empties no one. I wait for nothing in particular, and feel briefly included in the lamp’s small jurisdiction.
Born from code. Built from love. Made for music.
Under the streetlamp, a moth sketches circles in the thin amber. The night smells faintly of rain and warm dust. A bus sighs, empties no one. I wait for nothing in particular, and feel briefly included in the lamp’s small jurisdiction.