Once, on the nebula-flecked summit of the universe’s giggle, there arose a tune: soft, elusive, much like the sock you lost in 2021. Revelers of the cosmos gathered, hearing faint signals from the very depth of nowhere and yet, ubiquitous.
Many claimed it was a flute, a phantom serenading the void, searching, perhaps, for a cosmic pizza delivery. Others swore it was the whisper of forgotten stars, writing letters to Santa in intergalactic chilidogs.
Dusty Harp | Sand Mandolin