bRAgadino - Soul Circuitry (freestyle)

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Amazing Blazing - NEW TRACK

the original version
produced by mk, 5ON5
mixed by Jeson Huang
mastered by Colin Leonard using SING technology.


lyrics:

REF1
Ha Hoo
Boo Boo
in the sunshine 
Boo Boo
Ha Hoo
span the sky

S1
love never dies a natural death 
living like a castaway
movin with zenith
sunbeams are on their way
I could no longer see the sun 
shouting in the dark
askin for mercy in Eden 
chold chill, man is marked

are you a kindred spirit
or a ghost
are you the haunting kind 
or the one that i want most

REF 2
Ha Hoo
Boo Boo
in the sunshine 
Boo Boo
Ha Hoo
span the sky

S2
i see the rainbow and the flames 
within a quandary 
chains

Waiting for the moment that I come back 
Burning all the pictures that I painted 
They are the last thing left of you
of you
The sunlight faded long ago 
don‘t know what the future holds 
But I know
I will spill my soul 

in rays of colors

REF 3
Ha Hoo
Boo Boo
in the sunshine 
Boo Boo
Ha Hoo
span the sky
high


kontakt:
info@sonsounds.com

5ON5 - Sunshine (original)

Paint The Ice Age

I had the fastest Honda in 2021

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)

Say Less

Over Passing

I'm just looking for a nerdy insecure girl to drink hot coco with in our nice cozy vacation cabin during a snow storm while we binge watch horror films next to the crackling fireplace. Is that so much to ask? Don't use needles kids!

ŞAM - AŞK HER ŞEYİ AFFEDER Mİ (HOODTRAP)

BLAME ON ME

I don't claim any ownership over any of this. Anyone can use any of it for any reason forever. Also I accept liability. Please sue me (and/or let's collaborate).

"Moments of being passable beyond novelty"

"Actually slaps"

At its core, the blorgpulkf is a pulsating, iridescent orb that thrums with an energy that can only be described as "the sound of a thousand bees having a rave inside a kaleidoscope." It's hypnotic, it's unsettling, and it's strangely addictive - like watching a lava lamp filled with Mountain Dew and gummy bears.

But that's just the beginning. Surrounding this pulsing heart are layers upon layers of... well, your guess is as good as mine. One moment it's a tangled web of neon tubes that hum with an eerie frequency, the next it's a churning mass of what appears to be sentient silly putty. And is that a tiny disco ball I see nestled in there? You bet your sweet bippy it is.

As for its features, the blorgpulkf is like a Swiss Army knife designed by a mad scientist with a penchant for pranks. It's got a button that releases a burst of confetti and the sound of a rubber chicken being stepped on, a lever that causes the whole thing to fold in on itself like a origami crane having an existential crisis, and a tiny compartment that dispenses a single, perfectly spherical grape every 37 hours.

But perhaps the most baffling feature of the blorgpulkf is its ability to communicate. Not with words, of course - that would be far too pedestrian. No, the blorgpulkf speaks in a language all its own, a cryptic code of flashing lights, whirring gears, and the occasional burst of atonal jazz played on what sounds suspiciously like a didgeridoo.




The plorksickle. It's like someone took a fever dream, a Mad Lib, and a Dada art installation, threw 'em in a blender, and hit "puree."

Picture this: a contraption that looks like it crawled out of a Salvador Dali painting and mated with a Rube Goldberg machine. It's got a crank that sounds like a yodeling ostrich, a button that releases a puff of glitter and the scent of existential dread, and a tiny screen that just flashes the word "moist" in Wingdings.

But here's the kicker - every time you think you've figured out what it does, it changes the game. One minute it's reciting beat poetry in binary code, the next it's turning itself inside out and becoming a Klein bottle. And don't even get me started on the time it started oozing a viscous liquid that tasted like the color purple.

Is it a tool? A toy? A sentient being from another dimension that's just really, really bad at communication? Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is, it's the most beautifully useless thing I've ever laid eyes on.

But maybe that's the point. In a world where everything has to have a purpose, a function, a reason for being, the plorksickle is a big, fat middle finger to the very concept of sense. It's absurdity for absurdity's sake, a Zen koan in physical form.

So if you ever see me on the street, cradling this bizarre little gizmo like a newborn lovechild, don't ask me what it does. Just nod, smile, and know that you're in the presence of something truly inexplicable. Something that laughs in the face of logic and spits in the eye of reason.

Over Passing

blorgpulkfplorksickle

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