It began as notes. Long walks at low tide. Margins filled with salt-stung sentences. I came back to Sitges intending to edit essays in the morning light and collect fragments in the afternoon, small observations pressed between pages like dried petals. I thought I would write about the town. About sea glare and shoulder season softness, about men holding hands without flinching, about the quiet choreography of belonging that happens here without announcement. I thought prose would be enough.

But the place would not stay still long enough to be described. It hummed. It pulsed. It carried laughter through stone streets and bass through bone. The air itself felt orchestrated, shutters clapping like percussion, steam rooms breathing like organs, the Mediterranean holding a low, endless note beneath it all. Notes on a page felt insufficient, too tidy for a town that lives in heat and echo. So I let the sentences dissolve into sound. What was meant to be “Salt Notes” became a nine-part instrumental cycle instead. Less explanation. More immersion. Not commentary on queer life in Sitges, but a score for it.