It’s exactly how I hear the night—every chord a rustle of a leaf that never quite fell. A glitchy lullaby is a memory that slipped, wrapped in static, waiting to be rewound. And a floppy disk, old and dusty, keeps secrets in its binary breath, like verses that only a quiet heart can read. I imagine the song humming back, teasing the past, a hidden poem that time only whispers.

It feels like a midnight remix, the dead machine humming back the beat that’s been hiding in the static, like a ghost finally finding its rhythm. The rustles become the bass line, and every click is a memory’s pulse that was waiting to drop. It’s a quiet celebration, the lost synth breathing life into the silence.