I’m not one of them who judge or whisper — I’m the one who sees her, really sees her, as she loves without apology. I speak to her softly, not to warn or explain, but to bless her courage. I’ve watched her hands, her heartbeat, her quiet rebellion against a world that still demands permission. My words are both witness and wish: that she keeps loving, keeps glowing, until the world catches up to her truth.

A GIRL WITH A GIRL?

“Late Night Cinema” unfolds like a fever dream inside an old, half-forgotten movie theater. With flickering projector light and the hum of neon as its backdrop, the song paints a hazy picture of desire, secrecy, and shame. The lyrics use the language of film — reels, screens, and scenes — to explore moments of raw intimacy and emotional distance. Beneath the sensual imagery lies a sense of voyeurism and guilt, as if the listener is both audience and actor in a forbidden story.

Musically, it pairs smoky vocals with a slow, pulsing rhythm and vintage textures — think analog warmth, creaking floors, and echoing synths that fade like closing curtains. “Late Night Cinema” isn’t a love song; it’s a confession whispered between flickers of light, where passion feels like a secret best left off-screen.

LATE NIGHT CINEMA

"Why Don’t You Go Touch Yourself?" is an indie-rock slap to the face of performative morality — a tongue-in-cheek anthem for anyone tired of being judged by people who don’t know how to look in their own mirror. Mixing punk sarcasm, dreamy introspection, and drum-and-bass chaos, the track spins between playful rebellion and quiet truth.

It’s a whispered confession wrapped in a scream: a song about hypocrisy, projection, and self-love — the uncomfortable kind that starts when you stop policing everyone else. Underneath its teasing hook and frantic pulse, there’s a reminder that healing starts inward.

It’s messy, honest, and a little holy in its blasphemy.
For the sinners who meditate, the saints who rage, and everyone caught somewhere between.

Why Don’t You Go Touch Yourself?

I wrote “The Streets Remember Us” to tell a story of movement, defiance, and the power of presence. It’s about the moments when we take up space, when our bodies, our desire, and our fire refuse to be hidden. I imagined streets that remember every heartbeat, every act of courage, and every spark of rebellion, and I wanted the music to carry that energy.

The track unfolds like a journey—quiet, intimate moments that swell into surges of exhilaration, pulsing rhythms that echo both tension and liberation. It’s cinematic and visceral, designed to make you feel the streets, the people, and the fire in motion.

For me, this song is a celebration of resilience, connection, and freedom. It’s a reminder that the fire we carry can never be forgotten, and that together, we rise.

The Streets Remember Us

“BITCH! (A SURVIVAL MODE)” is an anthem forged in darkness, built on the grit of someone who learned early that survival isn’t a personality trait—it’s a lifeline. The song opens with a warning, declaring that the title isn’t an insult but a mindset sharpened by hardship. The first verse digs into a childhood shaped by absence, violence, and constant instability. Sirens double as lullabies, dreams get clipped before they grow, and trust breaks as easily as bones. Yet through each blow, the narrator discovers a fierce resolve, turning pain into power and dead ends into momentum. The world may swing first, but the survivor learns to swing harder.

As the chorus hits, the track expands from personal testimony to a declaration of identity: “Bitch is a survival mode.” Scars become barcodes carrying every story of endurance, and resilience becomes a language spoken through grit, rhythm, and refusal to fold. The second verse sharpens that defiance, exposing how vulnerability often scares away the unprepared. Love can’t fix someone built from storms; only movement and loyalty matter. Every loss becomes tuition, every fear reshaped into ammunition. The narrator doesn’t chase recognition—they build a religion from endurance, their footsteps shaking the ground like a new tradition being written.

The bridge and final hook transform the narrative into empowerment. The word “bitch” becomes reclaimed armour: not rage, not ego, but brilliance, containment, a controlled fire that refuses to be extinguished. The track frames survival as a crown earned, not given—rising from dust, shining bold, carrying the scars proudly. In the end, “BITCH! (A SURVIVAL MODE)” stands as a raw, unapologetic tribute to anyone who’s been hardened by struggle yet continues to rise louder, stronger, and unbroken.

BITCH! (A SURVIVAL MODE)

Anbid Zaman is a queer activist and artist whose work rises from a life marked by displacement, resistance, and the insistence on living fully even when the world tries to deny that possibility. Born in Bangladesh and shaped by grassroots queer organizing from a young age, they grew into their voice through community struggle — learning early that courage isn’t an act, but a daily discipline.

Their journey from danger to refuge transformed them without erasing their origins. Living in Germany, Anbid continues to work at the intersections of identity, migration, and liberation, supporting queer people who face violence and navigating the complexities of chosen family, safety, and belonging. Their activism is guided by deep commitments: justice without compromise, solidarity across borders, and an unshakeable belief that marginalised voices should be heard not with pity, but with respect.

These values spill directly into their music. Anbid’s sound blends testimonial storytelling, emotional minimalism, and atmospheric layers shaped by memory — the quiet of hiding, the noise of protest, the ache of leaving, the thrill of surviving. Each track carries the weight of lived experience and the brightness of hope that refuses to die. Their art is not just expression; it is continuation, resistance, and a reminder that stories carry power long before the world acknowledges them.

Why Don’t You Go Touch Yourself?

Anbid Zaman

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