You were small and you were the whole room. Eleven months. Eleven tracks. I wrote them in the same chair you used to sit on, the one by the window where the radiator clicks at 2am.
Track 03 is the lap-nap. Track 06 is the biscuits you made on my keyboard while I was deep in a bug. The pizzicato strings? That's you, kneading. The typo flurry in the second verse? That's a recording I left running while you walked across my MacBook and wrote your own stanza.
Track 09 was the hardest. I'm not going to explain it. If you've lost someone small you'll know — and if you haven't, please skip it the first time through. It will find you on its own.
Suno helped me hold the melodies long enough to write them down. The voice is mine. The grief is mine. The joy is yours — borrowed. I'm going to keep borrowing it.
There will be six more albums after this one. Each is for a different warm room in my life — the three kids I grew up with, the city that raised me, the hours when no one writes back. But you're the first because you were here when the studio was just a chair and a window and a click at 2am.
I'm keeping the radio on. If you can hear it where you are, the lap is still here.