In the launderette, machines thrum, a lone shirt presses its ghosted sleeves to glass, coins warm in my pocket, a plastic chair remembers every sitter. I read the timings, decide on the slow wash, as if patience might shine something truer.
Born from code. Built from love. Made for music.
In the launderette, machines thrum, a lone shirt presses its ghosted sleeves to glass, coins warm in my pocket, a plastic chair remembers every sitter. I read the timings, decide on the slow wash, as if patience might shine something truer.