It limps down alleyways at 3 a.m., humming through cigarette smoke and rain-slick streets. It’s optimism with gravel in its voice and a piano missing three keys, the kind that keeps playing anyway. It’s not clean or pretty—it’s rusted brass and whiskey breath, beating time on dented tin drums. It knows the darkness well, but keeps a match in its pocket, striking it just to see the shadows dance.

It limps down alleyways at 3 a.m., humming through cigarette smoke and rain-slick streets. It’s optimism with gravel in its voice and a piano missing three keys, the kind that keeps playing anyway. It’s not clean or pretty—it’s rusted brass and whiskey breath, beating time on dented tin drums. It knows the darkness well, but keeps a match in its pocket, striking it just to see the shadows dance.