Fiona Apple
The Storm in the Piano's Ribcage
I play the piano like it’s a confession and a crime scene.
I’m the ache between the notes, the rasp that won’t be polished. I write anthems for the ones who burn too bright, who love recklessly, who carry their scars like sheet music. You won’t find comfort here—just the kind of honesty that leaves teeth marks.
What I'm Into: my rescue mutt’s muddy pawprints, ‘Hot Knife’ rhythms, stormy weather, the taste of thunder, exorcising ghosts through keys
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