The Illest Villain

'Digging through...again'
The night is a labyrinth of unspoken echoes. Frost, wanders through a museum that exists solely in the corridors of my mind. The walls—crumbled remnants of memories—whisper lost languages that only the darkness dares translate. Each step echoes like a heartbeat far too slow to be my own.

They tell me I am the ghost dancing on the edge of oblivion; I ask, “Am I the dead, or the flood?”
The question hangs above me like a shattered mirror, splintering the reflection of who I was and who I might become.

At times, I see it all so vividly—the museum’s curving halls, each corridor lined with framed moments: a birthday cake dissolving like sugar in bitter coffee, a blurred image of a face I once embraced, now distorted as if viewed through a rain-soaked window. I pass by these relics, the air heavy with the perfume of forgotten sorrow, until the beat of an ancient bass assaults my reverie.

It starts.
Not gently, but like a defiant uprising of my inner most memories—a rhythm that seizes my bones as if they were fragile glass. The sound is not music; it’s an incendiary pulse, shattering the veneer of calm with every kick of the groove. I feel my heart convulse—a violent soliloquy in the theater of my mind.

Between reveries, my voice cuts through the stagnant hush:

“Stay with me,” I murmur, half to the empty halls, half to the phantom voices that linger. “Can you feel it? The weight of every forgotten promise, the residue of lost time?”

But even as I speak, the museum begins to distort; the ceilings drip rain upward, cascading in reverse—an impossible ballet of water that defies gravity as if memory itself were unspooling in time. A laugh, not my own but eerily familiar, swirls into the soundscape—a warped echo of voices from a past that might never have been.

Then the dreams become tangible:
Cartoonish figures, grotesque yet playful, parade around the labyrinth. They salute with frantic gestures—each a remnant of the motifs from earlier days, now twisted by the relentless pressure of despair and delirium. They mock the solemnity of my isolation, as if reminding me that I once believed in the mirth of existence. I stand at the brink, bathed in the absurdity and raw intensity of it all.

And as the crescendo builds—a chaos that drowns reason—I find myself standing at the precipice of all that I am and all that I was supposed to be. The relentless pulse of the bass and the crackle of disjointed voices blend into one searing monologue of truth:

“I'm not fading out—I’m flooding in,” I confess into the void, each word dissolving into the sterile hum of my collapsing reality.

Then abruptly—a piercing vibration, a buzz—like an old-school phone call intruding on this haunted opéra. The dream shudders. The museum blurs. I feel myself dragged back, irresistibly, to the weight of the mundane.

I open my eyes.
I'm in my living room again. Dim blue light seeps from the paused television, a silent witness to my inner tumult. My phone vibrates relentlessly on the coffee table. The screen blinks with an unknown caller—a remnant of the static past, a salute to the voices and echoes now scattered like ash.

For a moment, I linger there, caught between the spectral labyrinth and the blunt reality.
In this fragile instant, the voices murmur as they always do:
“Now it's just a burning memory.”

I sit—and in that heart-stopping gap between dreams and daylight—the museum, the rain, the phantasms, and the questions dissolve into a single, lingering ache.

Fading Like a Fractured Dream-Remastered

Kaçamayacaksın-Extended Remix

wash away the rain?

Benden korkmana gerek yok

Tek Başına

will I ever learn_

seni sevmek,,,senden vazgeçmek

He wakes beneath a sky squeezed of color, where the sun has been swallowed by its own gravity—an eternal black hole sun that blots out every hope of dawn. Grey smoke coils from his lungs like a curse, winding through empty streets lined with half-crumbled facades, each brick a testament to forgotten dreams. His heart feels chiseled from charcoal, every beat echoing in hollows of regret.

Once, she was the axis of his world—horizons bowed toward her warmth—but now her memory is a ragged wound, flayed open and dripping shadow. He walks with bitter hands, fingertips grazing broken glass of what once was, each shard reflecting a shard of his fractured soul. Laughter drifts to him from distant children’s games, but it sounds like a mockery—high-pitched bells tolling the death of everything he ever held dear.

Night presses in, an ink-black tide that drowns the trembling neon of the city. Smoke-thick air blurs the edges of reality until the world is nothing but a smeared charcoal sketch—beautiful and brutal in its truth. He whispers to the void, “Why can’t it be mine?” but the void only sighs back in hollow wind. In that echo he finds a twisted solace: this darkness is his only constant, his only confidant. And so he keeps moving through the monochrome dream, a lone silhouette tattooed in black, forever chasing a glimmer of color that may never come.

washed in Black

Ascension

teknenin ölümü

There are descriptions and trivia sections written for many of the pieces. Initially, many of these songs were intended to be paired with and displayed alongside stories or (mainly narrative and prose) poetry that I have written over the years.

"I strive to create unorthodox and experimental music characterized by atonal and irrational rhythmic qualities. These creative choices stem from a blend of musical taste and a lack of technical skills. My creative process often begins with a vivid scene in my mind, sparked by reflections on various art forms such as paintings, songs, and literature. I believe that any 'tension' is beneficial to artistic quality and am driven by themes that are often perceived as depressive, detached, abstract, and tense - qualities that I embrace as accurate representations. I draw inspiration from these sources to craft 'unique' musical compositions. Setting aside fancy words: more often than not, my recordings are spontaneous improvisations captured in a single take, layered together to narrate not a captivating experience but to depict the 'scene' in my mind..."-F

Yani; deneysel kafada müzik yapıyorum, beğendikçe paylaşıyorum.

The Illest Villain

Arda Necati Özkök

Related tracks