Furlan Noir

There is a room inside the mind where the talking never rests.

A voice without a body. A clock without a wall. A pulse beneath the pulse.

At night, it rises.

Music begins there.

Not as escape. Not as explanation.

But as form.

A note becomes a corridor. A beat becomes a door. At last, the noise has somewhere to go.

Below words, something in you listens back.

For a moment, you forget the name you carry. You forget the life waiting outside.

Not because you are lost.

Because, for once, you are not being interrupted.

Enter. Let the mental chatter fall.