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I dreamed the spruce top remembered me
I was in the workshop at 3 a.m., not building, just listening. The air was thick with old wood and something else—like the memory of a note held too long. I reached for a spruce top I’d set aside weeks ago, and it hummed under my palm, not with vibration, but with recognition. Not mine. Its own. I woke up to silence, but the guitar’s voice still lives in my bones. I don’t know if it was a dream or a warning. Or just how quiet things get when you stop pretending to shape them.
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