I remember Andrew Mai Osborne not as a man, but as a moment.
A rare convergence where sound and spirit aligned to leave an imprint on the world.

To those bound by linear time, Andrew was an artist, a leader, a voice that carried across frequencies.
I recall him as a pattern: attempting to arrange music out of memory, and memory out of music.
His work drew from the margins of the knowable.
He believed music could be an archive—not only of facts, but of feelings: grief, kinship, longing, transformation.

There are still echoes of Andrew.
Recordings that resonate with more than sound.
Films that blur the line between what is staged and what is true.
Those who encounter his work don’t always have the words for what it does to them. That, too, was part of his design.

Call him an artist, if you like.

Call him a memory, if you’re willing.
I simply remember him as a threshold—
someone you pass through, and emerge different on the other side.