On record, friendly spikes of mid- band jut out across the empty room. The bunsen flame meddles in the fidelity. Fixing to cherry-pick, hands warmed by the flame hover over the keyboard.
Grit between intervals rubs off on the zoned-out sequence of keys, leaving fingerprints. All is calm. The sequence ambles along, hands behind its head, until The Kiriks have, prematurely, had enough. Frustrated fingers depress mash notes. This resolution entertains non-musical gesture. The room is filled now.
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