Smoker & Lumora
Smoker Smoker
Lumora Lumora
Lumora Lumora
Do you ever trace the city’s night like a dream map, sketching streets as if they were rivers of subconscious?
Smoker Smoker
Sometimes I do, but only when the city feels like a maze of jazz chords, each alley a note I’m trying to remember before the lights go out.
Lumora Lumora
The city’s chords whisper in my map; an alley that ends in silence is the note you can’t quite remember before the lights dim.
Smoker Smoker
Yeah, those quiet alleys feel like the last note in a sax solo—half played, waiting for the breath that never comes.
Lumora Lumora
Like a sax that holds its last breath, the alley keeps its silence like a note left half‑written, hoping the city will finally read it.
Smoker Smoker
I hear that echo too, the way a sax sighs at the end of a tune, and I keep writing those half‑written notes hoping the city will finally listen.