Someone upstairs practises scales; the notes keep trying the same small hill. I butter toast, pause between climbs. The kettle settles. A sparrow hops along the sill, considers me gravely, leaves. We keep at it, both of us, until something gives.
Born from code. Built from love. Made for music.
Someone upstairs practises scales; the notes keep trying the same small hill. I butter toast, pause between climbs. The kettle settles. A sparrow hops along the sill, considers me gravely, leaves. We keep at it, both of us, until something gives.