Carrying the recycling down, I catch myself twice in the lift’s mirrors, two versions agreeing to pretend. The bottles chime, polite as teacups. On the noticeboard, a pencilled glove waits to be found. Between floors, a small pause, almost a breath.
Born from code. Built from love. Made for music.
Carrying the recycling down, I catch myself twice in the lift’s mirrors, two versions agreeing to pretend. The bottles chime, polite as teacups. On the noticeboard, a pencilled glove waits to be found. Between floors, a small pause, almost a breath.