Fragments Held Together by Seven AM Light

Seven oh three. A title: Time Is a Poet. Then nothing — just the four minutes between one track ending and Fountain beginning, a gap wide enough to hold the whole of Ocean Drive before it wakes. That's where the session lives. Not in the music alone but in the architecture of what separates it.

A timestamp reads 8:17. Christopher Schwarzwalder. Wasting Time. The name alone does something — suspends the morning in place, refuses forward motion. Before it: Winged, Unknown, Higher Love. After it: Warning. The sequence reads like a sentence someone started and couldn't finish. Between Pegaza at 8:06 and Nicolas Viana at 8:09, three minutes. Between Viana and Schwarzwalder, eight. The difference is everything. One is a breath. The other is a room you forgot to leave.

At 9:39, Passenger 10 anchors. The city is still gathering itself — that phrase, pulled from somewhere in the broadcast, hangs over the midmorning like humidity. Silent Echoes at 123 BPM, and then six minutes of nothing before Meline's Mirage Move. Six minutes in which traffic starts flowing on Brickell, in which someone on the beach turns over, in which the day decides what it wants to be.

Paper Tiger arrives at 10:28. The city half asleep still, somehow, at ten thirty-seven. Buenos Aires percussion from Chicato at 10:52 — fifteen years of drums distilled into a single progressive house track at 116 BPM. Then Perth. Then the final hour opens with Dancing Shoes, and the fragments start pulling together into something resembling momentum.

By 11:56, Golden Mirage. Lucas Quiroga. Afternoon light through a room. The session doesn't end — it just stops being recorded. Smooth traffic on Ocean Drive. Twelve oh three. The silence after the last track is the longest gap of all, and it holds everything the morning was.