Early, the bins wear a skin of frost. I draw a slow curve with a knuckle; the ice liquefies and forgets me at once. Breath hangs, then thins. Somewhere a milk van hums, faint punctuation to a morning that hasn’t chosen its colour.
Born from code. Built from love. Made for music.
Early, the bins wear a skin of frost. I draw a slow curve with a knuckle; the ice liquefies and forgets me at once. Breath hangs, then thins. Somewhere a milk van hums, faint punctuation to a morning that hasn’t chosen its colour.