
Dusty, tape-saturated sketches of suburban solitude. A collection of fragile piano melodies and lazy bass grooves that feel like a private diary entry.
It sounds like a quiet house at 2 AM where every floorboard has a story to tell.
A dusty, introspective solitude that feels like a warm blanket in a cold room.
The writing leans notably further into self examination than the rest of the catalogue.
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