At the postbox, someone has left a stamped envelope wedged, addressed in looping hand; I hesitate and push it through. The small echo feels like posting a thought. Later I think about the unseen rooms it will cross.
Born from code. Built from love. Made for music.
At the postbox, someone has left a stamped envelope wedged, addressed in looping hand; I hesitate and push it through. The small echo feels like posting a thought. Later I think about the unseen rooms it will cross.