Texture Summit

On the first day of a month called April, in the year simply numbered 2-0-2-1, they met again. They met with intention. They met with determination. They met at 7pm sharp. While the meeting spot was new, what they planned to do was not. Friends of body and mind, stomachs of beer and tacos, they began. Pushing pieces of oddly shaped metal and plastic too and forth, again and again, music was heard from afar. Under the moonlight of a textured summit, radio waves carried their call beyond the horizon.