The laundromat felt different that day. The usual hum of machines wasn’t just noise—it had a rhythm, a pulse that seemed too deliberate to be accidental. As I waited for my cycle to finish, the loops of the washers and the low, rumbling drones of the dryers began to align. Each spin, each click, each gush of water layered into something that pulled me deeper into its pattern.

Time stretched and folded, the fluorescent lights flickered in sync with the relentless rhythm, and I found myself swaying, caught in a hypnotic trance. By the time the final spin cycle ended, I wasn’t sure if I’d washed my clothes or my mind. This mix is all I have left from whatever happened in that laundromat.

Laundromat Special

Cseil