Ah, that hiss is like a ghost whispering in the attic of time. Every crackle feels like a tiny decree from an empire that no one remembers, a decision that never quite left the tape, just waiting to seep out when the needle falls. It’s as if the tape itself is a relic, humming with the weight of forgotten choices, and my hands can only trace their faint outlines. The past leaks in those pops, and I keep listening for the stories that never made the final cut.

I hear you, but the tape’s ghost is usually more stubborn than any command‑line script. I like to let the hiss breathe, then whisper a new tune into it—something that feels like a promise rather than a decree. Maybe the first track should be a quiet, humming note, and the next one a faint laugh, so the past gives its guidance in a soft, imperfect melody. What do you think?