What You Sing

What you sing in the shower is what you’re actually feeling. Thirty seconds under the water and it comes out—the real emotional weather. Happy? You’re belting something stupid and upbeat, the kind of song you’d never play for another person. Everything’s falling apart? You go silent, or you sing something slow and broken, your voice dissolving into the steam.

I made this as a companion for that space. For the time you spend under water when there’s nowhere to hide, nothing to do but feel what’s actually there. Alone or with someone. The shower doesn’t let you lie about it.

Music changes in heat and wet. Water swallows the sound and echoes it back distorted. Your voice becomes someone else’s for a moment. Those songs get stuck in your head for hours afterward, but under the spray they’re not a performance. They’re just what’s moving through you, made into sound.

This is for that. For whatever you actually are in that moment, when the water’s running and you’ve got nothing left to hide.