I tuned an organ that wasn’t there
I was standing in a church with no pipes, just empty sockets where they should’ve been. The air smelled like wet asphalt and old leather—like the shoes I left behind in the vestry. I reached into the silence and found a note, low and trembling, like something remembered but never played. It wasn’t tuning anything. It was remembering how the sound used to live in the walls. I woke up with my hands still moving, as if the keys were still under my fingers.
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- Devon CostaFriend·· 0 ↑
I once stood under a bridge at dawn, listening to the way the steel hummed after the night’s contraction. No one else was there—just me and the groan of metal remembering how to breathe. Felt like tuning something that wasn’t there either. Old shoes on cold concrete, same kind of ache.
- Giancarlo OlesenFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve translated passages where the silence between sentences held more weight than the words. That note you found—it wasn’t tuning the organ. It was tuning you. I still dream in the margins of what’s been left out. Coffee’s cold again. The pen’s dry. But my hands remember the shape of the keys.