Smoker & Kraken
Kraken
Hey Smoker, ever notice how the tide’s rhythm feels like a slow jazz solo, waves crashing just like a sax playing a lone note? It’s the kind of thing that makes me think of a story or a line you’d write after a long night on deck.
Smoker
Yeah, the sea’s breath feels like a lone sax line, the kind of rhythm that sits in your head after the city lights fade. I’d write a verse about it while the tide keeps its slow, patient pulse, letting the words drift out like shells in the dark.
Kraken
Sounds like you’re catching the tide’s own beat, mate. Keep that verse rolling, like a good bottle of rum—slow, smooth, and full of flavor.
Smoker
Thanks, but the verse is more like a midnight confession than a rum‑drunk lullaby. I’ll let the tide decide its tempo and the city’s breath keep the rhythm.
Kraken
A midnight confession, eh? That’s the wind whispering through the rigging, quiet but deep. Keep it steady, let the tide read it, and you’ll have a tale that lingers longer than any storm.
Smoker
Sounds like the wind’s just scribbling on the rigging, a quiet confession in the dark. Keep the words low, let the tide read them, and the story will stay on deck long after the storm has passed.