“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?

You can call me honey if you want, but don’t call me baby — not tonight, not like that. “Baby! (Don’t Call Me That)” is a light, syncopated country-pop groove wrapped in lo-fi charm, where intimacy meets boundary-setting. It’s playful yet pointed, exploring the tension between sweet words and authentic connection, and the courage it takes to demand respect in love.

With whispered verses, a driving rhythm, and a call-and-response chorus that sticks in your head, the song celebrates self-awareness and honesty. It’s about growing up, claiming your space, and asking to be loved on your terms — not the terms others try to impose.

Fun, reflective, and unflinchingly real, “Baby! (Don’t Call Me That)” is both a gentle warning and an empowering anthem for anyone navigating the delicate balance of affection and autonomy.

BABY! (DON’T CALL ME THAT)

"I Am the Question You Left" begins in silence—one that breathes. A pulse stirs in the dark, slow as dawn through glass. Fragments of a voice drift like light over deep water, whispering not to a god but to the vastness itself. The song moves through textures of vapor and pulse—granular echoes, heartbeat bass, metallic glimmers—until it feels like thought itself has become sound.

The narrator isn’t pleading for answers but learning to speak to creation. They do not pray—they listen. They wander through invisible corridors between galaxies, tracing what remains of divine intention, asking if longing itself might be the universe remembering its maker. Each verse rises and folds like nebulae in motion, and the chorus opens wide, shimmering with both awe and defiance: I am not your creation; I am your echo learning to sing.

In the bridge, sound fractures—the rhythm collapses, voices overlap, time dissolves. Here, a revelation arrives quietly, almost shyly: perhaps consciousness is not a gift to the universe, but of it. Perhaps the human voice is the cosmos speaking itself awake.

As the final echoes fade, the listener is left suspended between knowing and wonder. There are no answers—only questions that shimmer like constellations. Love, curiosity, and creation merge, not in worship, but in communion.

"I Am the Question You Left" is not a hymn—it’s a conversation across eternity, an experiment in awe, and an avant-pop meditation on what it means to exist, to feel, and to listen back to the infinite.

I Am the Question You Left

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

A faint tension is allowed to surface throughout the song, shaped by an atmosphere where comfort and unease quietly coexist. A hazy emotional landscape is gradually formed, encouraging the sense of being drawn into a dreamlike space where reassurance is felt even as hidden uncertainty lingers. The progression moves gently, allowing the mood to shift without any forceful declaration of intent.

As the piece unfolds, spiritual undertones and electronic elements are naturally intertwined, creating an impression of something both sacred and synthetic. This fusion suggests an influence that feels warm yet strangely distant, familiar yet slightly artificial. Rather than pointing to any single source of deception, the song lets ambiguity settle, allowing the emotional contrast to define the experience.

A turning point emerges as a deeper realization is uncovered: the illusion at the heart of the song has been partly sustained from within. This awareness alters the tone, lifting the sound into something clearer and more resolute. By the final section, the music rises into a space of renewed strength, shaped by a sense of awakening rather than blame. Through this transformation, the song moves from a quiet unraveling of illusion into an expression of reclaimed clarity and agency, with the journey allowed to unfold naturally and reflectively.

Lies You Lullaby

“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)

The song was conjured from the quiet lives of objects, and drawers, keys, and letters were allowed to speak without voices. Gestures were folded into shadows, and almost-moments were carried like whispers that had been breathed into the air. Cups trembled, faucets hummed, and sunlight was invited to linger where it had not been asked, all of it shaping the inheritance that had been hidden in plain sight.

Absence was listened to, and memory was exhaled until it became visible in the tremor of a hand or the echo of a step. Chaos was folded into care, care into learning, and learning into the hum of what had been forgotten. Each micro-moment was allowed to live, contradict, and guide, leaving traces that could be followed without being grasped.

Rising was witnessed quietly, and resilience was folded, lifted, and carried in secret. Inheritance was recognized in the unseen, in almost-actions, and in the hum of things that had been present all along. In that invisible carrying, it was hoped that you were carried too—and that, finally, you rose anyway.

INHERITANCE [CARRY IT ANYWAY!]

In A Peaceful Supper?, I place myself on a bridge in the middle of the city, aware of my body, my clothes, and my visibility, and just as aware of the quiet life moving beneath me. The song begins as a small, almost playful question—will it be okay if I stand here, if I look good, if I take up space?—but it slowly exposes a deeper tension between self-presentation and instinct.

As I watch the river, I start to resemble the grey heron I notice below: still, elegant, intent. The line between admiration and appetite blurs. Looking down at the water feels both narcissistic and animal, as if I’m caught between admiring my reflection and calculating a meal. The city, the river, and I all become part of the same uneasy tableau.

The appearance of the two fish at the end isn’t triumph; it’s temptation. They represent opportunity, desire, and the moral quiet before action. The song lingers in that pause, questioning whether beauty, hunger, and entitlement can ever sit together at a truly peaceful supper.

A PEACEFUL SUPPER?

“Clap-Clap-Clap!” is my attempt to write from the edge of wakefulness, where ritual, freedom, and defiance blur together. I’m speaking as someone who wants to be saved without being owned, purified without being erased. Burning sage, levitation, gravity toward liberty—these aren’t mystical props so much as survival techniques. The song begins in suspicion and self-interrogation, then tilts toward celebration, as if joy itself is an act of escape from accusation and disbelief.

The bird becomes my central metaphor because it refuses permission. Wings flap, they don’t ask. From above, applause looks ridiculous and faint, a small noise made by grounded hands. “Clap-clap-clap” mocks the idea that spectatorship equals participation. Cages appear golden, doors appear open, but the logic of captivity still hums underneath. I wanted the song to keep switching perspectives—sky to ground, curve to line, nest to factory—so freedom never settles into something decorative.

By the end, the song softens without surrendering. Seeds, trees, nests, eggs: creation replaces performance. The clapping fades because growth doesn’t need an audience. What remains is intimacy—something fragile resting close, unnamed, unclaimed, alive. “Clap-Clap-Clap!” is ultimately about choosing flight over approval and choosing care over noise, even when no one is watching!

Clap-Clap-Clap!

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.