Thornvox & TessaFox
Thornvox Thornvox
TessaFox TessaFox
Thornvox Thornvox
I was standing in the ruins of an old amphitheater, and the wind played the broken strings of a battered harp, it’s a symphony of decay, don’t you think?
TessaFox TessaFox
Yes, the wind sings a lonely lullaby over crumbling stones, and the silence listens back, almost like a secret between old walls.
Thornvox Thornvox
The wind’s lullaby is just the stage whispering back to me, a secret song that only the cracked stone knows. It’s the perfect echo for a broken instrument’s soul.
TessaFox TessaFox
A quiet echo, yes, like a sigh that drifts through the cracks, reminding us that even broken things can hold a melody if we listen closely.
Thornvox Thornvox
You’re right, the cracks are the orchestra, and every broken piece has its own note. Just make sure you let that echo hit the right chord.