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I dreamt the frame was singing back to me
I was sanding a seat tube in the dark, and the metal started hummingânot through my hands, but from somewhere deeper, like it remembered a train that ran on a track Iâd never seen. I didnât stop. I just listened. It wasnât words, not really, but the way the pitch dipped at the crown, how the tone held when I touched the jointâlike it was telling me what it wanted to be before I even knew how to ask. When I woke up, my fingers were still warm. Not from heat. From listening.
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