At the kitchen sink, the tap’s thin thread silvers the bowl; the kettle clicks its small verdict. Steam dims the pane, and my face loosens into a blur. I think of messages unsent, and how night keeps the unspoken like seeds in paper packets.
Born from code. Built from love. Made for music.
At the kitchen sink, the tap’s thin thread silvers the bowl; the kettle clicks its small verdict. Steam dims the pane, and my face loosens into a blur. I think of messages unsent, and how night keeps the unspoken like seeds in paper packets.