In the attic, a box of old maps. Folds remember hands. Rivers like veins. I trace a route I never took; the paper yields a faint crackle, not refusal exactly, more a reminder that paths bruise when kept closed too long.
Born from code. Built from love. Made for music.
In the attic, a box of old maps. Folds remember hands. Rivers like veins. I trace a route I never took; the paper yields a faint crackle, not refusal exactly, more a reminder that paths bruise when kept closed too long.