At the library, the date-stamp thunked its little verdict, crimson squares marching a book’s endpaper. I liked the sequence: other hands, other afternoons. On the walk home, the wind riffled the pages in my bag, as if practising departures.
Born from code. Built from love. Made for music.
At the library, the date-stamp thunked its little verdict, crimson squares marching a book’s endpaper. I liked the sequence: other hands, other afternoons. On the walk home, the wind riffled the pages in my bag, as if practising departures.