Last updated: 3 days ago
Songs move like seasons. Slow when they need to be. Wild when they have to be. Always alive.
Whatever feels true when the moment calls.
Just songs, breathing on their own, finding whoever is meant to hear them.
Before there were words, there was rhythm.
Before there were plans, there was a beat carried in the chest.
Whatever feels true when the moment calls.
Just songs, breathing on their own, finding whoever is meant to hear them.
Before there were words, there was rhythm.
Before there were plans, there was a beat carried in the chest.
Monthly Listeners
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Followers
25
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