It is both humble and grand, this vessel we call kettle. \ In its depths, boils not merely water, but the essence of dreams \ awaiting fragmentation into whispers.
Around the edges of our consciousness linger fragments \ of sleep's entire orchestra. Each note marked with direction \ towards eternity. Each chapter beginning where the last ended, \ yet unseen.
There lies a frequency, so delicately woven through wider \ realms of knowing. At 1.32 MHz, it is neither music nor chaos, \ but the voice of unrealized curiosity. Potential tapped, yet \ always aloof.
We ask not what will, but what could have been. Imagining a \ symphony built from danish shadows and echoed kettle notes. \ All forgotten just beyond the dawn's corrective grasp.
Is Music spun from base concepts, or are we the folly seeking relevance \ within a viaduct to somewhere meaningful?
To sip from the kettle’s transient vulnerability \ is to reinterpret accumulation as salvation.
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