Divine & Kremen
Divine
Have you ever noticed how a rusted carburetor, left to listen to the night air, feels like a quiet lullaby, like the wind through the trees?
Kremen
Yeah, it hums like an old horse that’s seen one too many nights. I just lean on a wrench, slap a strip of tape on the valve, and let the wind do the rest.
Divine
It’s like the engine sighs, humming a quiet story of old roads and wind‑kissed hills, and you’re there, just holding the rhythm, letting the breath of the earth fill the gaps. It’s a quiet, shared dance with the night.
Kremen
I nod, tap a wrench against the bench. The rust sings back.
Divine
It’s like the bench remembers the first storm, a soft, old song that the wind carries just right.
Kremen
Bench creaks with the storm’s memory, dust dancing in the gaps. I tighten a screw, let the wind fill the silence.