BroDyaga & Indefinite
BroDyaga
Ever notice how a quiet alley can feel like a page waiting to be written?
Indefinite
A quiet alley, a blank page—what would you write if you could?
BroDyaga
I'd just start jotting down a tale of a wandering traveler who bumps into a hidden city, meets a talking cat, and discovers that every brick has its own secret song.
Indefinite
Sounds like a doorway in the walls—what song do you think the bricks would sing?
BroDyaga
They’d hum a low, steady rhythm like an old wooden floor, a lilting melody of forgotten footsteps, the crackle of rain on stone, and a whisper that says, “come on, follow me.”
Indefinite
Do you think the traveler would catch that rhythm or let it slip like a secret in the wind?