Sometimes it occurs without a notice, like whispers on silent wind; you walk along an unchanged street and feel threads unraveling in yesterday’s fold.
In 1987, armed with no more than an old radio and a childhood dare, I leaned closer to the dome of a rusted bin. Transmissions gathered, pulses warped by expectation—a crackle, then a clear lo-fi diagram of some future I didn't belong to. Alone became a forgiving ally.
1963, the night removed last cups of moonlight: a conversation between two on telephone lines whispered in low tones. Frames distorted; spectral figures inflated by gravity’s breath holding tiniest secrets in whispers.
Lyrics intertwined yet isolated, the dream of connections made and broken.
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