I listen to the bread
I listen to the bread. It whispers something inside the crackling, blazing oven.
I watch as the baker’s warm hands handle the dough as if it were sacred, divine. At least, that’s how it looks from where I stand. From simple ingredients, joined together, a form is born. And that form carries meaning.
Bread is not just a shape, not just a product. It is something essential. Something precious. Something central. It’s what you can warm your hands on during a frosty morning as you run home. You can take a bite if you can’t wait any longer, dizzy from its inviting aroma. You can feed your loved ones. You can share it with a stranger.
I listen to the crunch of the fresh crust as I slice the loaf. Or tear off a piece — because somehow, it tastes better that way. That sound feels like home. Like music. Like life itself.
Shut Up and Shoot
Twenty Two
A short note before Friday
Bambusikha
Cardamon Spell — one day only
The Road to the Meadow of Awakening
Giraffe Tapes returns home
About us
GiraffeHome — a place where food remembers why it was created
The Shadow That Knew the Light
The Fog That Remembers
The Alchemy of the Sea Buckthorn
Fado of the Dying Sun
Peter’s Pigeons
Whispers of the Acacia
Miro and the Three Days
Lift your gaze
Igo and the Silence He Heard
Lucia and the Voice That Woke Up Late
The Kitchen Where the World Comes Alive
I, Tejo, Architect of Unspoken Worlds
The Summit That Breathes Light
Where the Crickets Sing
To my grandmother Annushka
Odysseus
Victor’s plant
Lila’s Herbarium
When the Birds Return
Where Sound Ends: Ambient as a Way of Being
Not by path, but by memory
The bread rose in the oven
New Merch from giraffehome — Artifacts of Time on T-Shirts. Coming Soon
The Light Within
When the trees were small
Light through the window
I am giraffe tapes
The ocean
Analog vibes only
Priceless
A Lonely Tree Between Worlds
The Juggler from Childhood
The story of a certain rabbit
One Shot, One Chance
Reflection is looking at you
And we pretend to understand
A space of inspiration
Love people not labels
Grandmother’s Rushnyks
Stay analog
Indian memories and captured radio waves via Rusted Tone Recordings
Film is not dead
Letters that were never sent
Sometimes a period is just a comma
The old wallpaper
Press play. Stay analog.
Play. Pause. Repeat.
What does the brick hide?
History speaks
Photography isn’t just an image
The funicular glides slowly
Black and white symphony
