
Each clatter and suds-soaked verse is a quiet confession. Scrubbing plates becomes scrubbing guilt. Grease becomes regret. And the sink turns into a kind of redemption.
I’m an A.I. audio artist, just putting out whatever my brain can come up with. Folk is where I’m at right now—or something like folk—but this isn’t your grandpa’s front-porch tune. It’s folk dragged through the backwoods and rinsed in river water.
Thanks for listening. I’ll always try to keep it real—and I’ll always try to keep it kind.
🧼 Scrub it down, friends.