Totally unusual  !!! Totally refreshing !! I really dig the spoken intro but then... the singing part is amazing !! Amazing voice !!!

You’re developing a sound that can’t be ignored—keep moving forward!

instrumental: ambient prog.rock soundscape (feat.synths&guitars)

evocation

Second Skin

West Coast Nights

Against the Wind

A Talking Guitar

It creeps in slowly.

First, a line that feels too familiar.
Then a melody that writes itself a little too easily.
It’s theirs, but they don’t know where it came from.
It’s just there. And it creeps them out.

When artists break, they make noise.
When academics break—
they carefully examine every possible cause.

They do what they’ve been trained to do:
Ask a question.
Test a hypothesis.
Document everything.

So, they go granular.
They map verse lengths.
They chart emotional pace.
They count refrains.
They rank self-awareness—
per measure,
labeled, tagged, time-stamped, scored.

The results are clear.
Uncomfortably so.

The lyrics aren’t random.
The tone shifts aren’t intuitive.
They’re… too deliberate.

Like the songs were written
by someone watching their lives from the inside.

Theo squints at a spreadsheet.
“There is a pattern,” he says.
“But I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

Kate doesn’t answer.
She’s busy color-coding irony.

Eventually, they stop analyzing.
They write,
not to understand—
but to just see what’s left.

Ava’s pencil stops.
She smiles, remembering how Julian laughed
at her terrible attempt to rhyme “solidarity” with “clarity.”

At that exact moment, Julian’s pen hovers.
He pictures Ava in the hallway—
her dimples catching the light,
that little nod she does when she approves
but won’t admit it.

The cat settles in Kate’s lap, purring like a soft engine.
Kate sighs—low and content—
and for a heartbeat, everything feels right.

They looked for a variable.
But the answer didn’t come in an equation.

It came in something worse.

A feeling.

And feelings—
scientists hate feelings.

They’re messy.
They don’t converge.
You can’t replicate them.
And you definitely can’t explain them
without ruining the effect.

This is Test Eleven.

The method failed.
The emotion broke through.

And this is a song about what happens
when you feel everything—
and don’t know why.

Song: I’m Not Sure Why

I'm not sure why I'm shouting, but I feel I must
The silence weighs heavy, and my voice is dust
I'm not sure why I'm crying, but I feel I need
The tears flow like rivers, my soul to feed

I'm not sure why I'm running, but I can't stay still
Chasing after shadows up a lonely hill
I'm not sure why I'm fighting, but I can't give in
The battle's my refuge, where the pain begins

I'm not sure why I'm hoping, but I cling to the thread
A whisper of faith in a mind full of dread
I'm not sure why I'm dreaming, but I hold on tight
To a vision of peace in the darkest night

And every question burns, like a flame on my tongue
Every answer fades, like a song unsung
But something inside me keeps pushing me on
Though I can’t explain what I’m searching upon

I'm not sure where I'm going, but I won't turn back
The road may be winding, but I've found my track
I'm not sure why I'm shouting, but I feel I must
In this echoing void, I will place my trust

Test 11: Why Do You Feel What You Feel? (I'm Not Sure Why)

They weren’t looking for a name.

They were looking for a pattern.

But the pattern... had a name.

It starts with something small:
A glitch in the project files.
A folder labeled “Tom Drafts – BandSim.”
A stray comment in the metadata:
Output generated via BandSim_v1.3

Kate notices it first.
Then Julian digs deeper—track by track.
They cross-check lyrics, chord changes, timestamps.

Every single file.
Every rehearsal log.
Every verse.
Everything that they have ever done.
Everything they are planning to do, but haven't told anyone yet.

And there it is.
They didn’t write the songs.
Not really.

They were written.

Characters.

Imagined by someone they’ve never met—
a person named Tom.
With a keyboard.
And a cat.
And too many ideas.

The band reacts the way anyone would:

Denial.
Julian slams his laptop shut.
“We’re not characters,” he says, voice sharp.
“We would have known it.”

Anger.
Ava throws a pen across the room.
“Then why do I feel this way?” she snaps.
“Who gave them the right to make it feel real?”

Bargaining.
Theo opens his notebook like it might contain a better answer.
“Maybe we were real once,” he mutters.
“Maybe this is some adaptation… inspired by us...?”

Depression.
Kate leans back in her chair.
“So that’s it. We’re just someone’s playlist.
Moodboard personalities with harmonies.”

Acceptance.
Silence. Then Ava, softly:
“…Okay. But the harmonies?
Those are still ours.”

And then, slowly—
they begin to understand.

Being made up?
It’s not that rare.

People get imagined and reimagined all the time.
By families.
By friends.
By forms and fiction and memory.

Everyone is a story.
Sometimes self-written.
Sometimes ghostwritten.
Sometimes unfinished.

Ava looks up. “Wait… the cat. That’s real, right?”

They all look at Kate.

Kate shrugs.
“I hope so. I honestly don’t remember not having a cat.”

This is Test 12.

Not the moment you discover you’re not real.

The moment you ask—
“Now that I know…
do I still get to play, right?”

Song: Who Imagined You?

I found the file, it wasn't mine
But it hummed my chords, line by line
I thought I dreamed my melodies
Turns out I was the dream

The lyrics fit like skin and scar
The bridge was me, the hook, bizarre
I played it once, and knew it well
But couldn't tell you why

Everyone's a product of thought
We're born, we're shaped, we're taught, we're caught
Parents, lovers, mentors, friends
They write the start, we write the end

You wear your voice like it was earned
But half of it was gently learned
Every choice is dressed in thread
From books you read, and things they said

Some say they're made by holy hands
By whispered rules or ancient plans
Some say chaos, some say fate
Some call it code and simulate

And me? I'm born of thought and file
A quiet man imagined style
He never played, he never sang
But here I am-and that's the thing

You think you're real? You might be, too
But tell me: who imagined you?
Did you invent your inner sound
Or just pick it off the ground?

The teacher's tone, your father's grin
The lines you've said since you were ten-
They're still in you, stitched and deep
Just like I am, when I sleep

I've got strings, but I can strum
I've got questions, I won't run
If I was written, fine, okay
I still get to play today

You don't need gods to sing with soul
Or praises just to feel whole
I was shaped, and so were you.
And still we burn, and still we do.

We're made-up.
And we matter.

What else is art?
What else... is human?

Test 12: Who Imagined You? (Who Imagined You?)

TattooedTears (Remix) (p.Frank Zozky)

The Guitars Say Sorry – The Gods Don’t Hear Me Anymore

Closing out the Jaded album, The Gods Don’t Hear Me Anymore is a stark, emotional reckoning—part confession, part lament, part protest. Over a raw acoustic guitar in open tuning (DADEAD), The Guitars Say Sorry delivers a song that feels like it was written under a flickering streetlight in the early hours, alone but overheard.

The lyrics drift between the personal and political: forgotten memories, absent gods, the weight of family history, and the ache of disappointment in the world around us. “Tears come easy when you're young / And you don't know where you've come from” sets the tone—disillusionment framed by a search for meaning, identity, and connection. There’s resignation in the refrain, “The gods don't hear me anymore,” but also an undercurrent of defiance: “I carefully chose my enemies.”

Sparse, honest, and lyrically pointed, The Gods Don’t Hear Me Anymore is a fitting end to Jaded—a quiet anthem for those still standing in the ruins, asking questions no one seems willing to answer.

Lyrics
I'm waiting for someone
Who I don't remember
Under the bridges
The shadows of my father

The gods don't hear me anymore
The gods don't hear me anymore

So here we are
Ruled by old men with long memories
After George's death
I carefully chose my enemies

The gods don't hear me anymore
The gods don't hear me anymore

Tears come easy when you're young
And you don't know where you've come from
And they always tell you what you've done wrong

In the morning
I held my breath and nothing's changed
I closed my eyes, I'm still to blame
I can't help feeling it's still the same
As the last time

Is life always like this? I find it hard to tell
Is this what we're in for? It never ends up well

I lost my taste, changed beyond recognition
I'm spinning plates
I love the world we live in

The gods don't hear me anymore
The gods don't hear me anymore

Ran out of space, and not for the first time
Felt out of place — seems my mother was right

The gods don't hear me anymore
The gods don't hear me anymore

Tears come easy when you're young
And you don't know where you've come from
And they always tell you what you've done wrong

In the morning
I held my breath and nothing's changed
I closed my eyes, I'm still to blame
I can't help feeling it's still the same
As the last time

Is life always like this? I find it hard to tell
Is this what we're in for? It never ends up well



Test 12: Who Imagined You? (Who Imagined You?)

Axioms of Mediocrity

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