brotha🔪🔪🔪🔪🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

cherry

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

sample: god of flows or i'm god by clams casino and imogen heap

flows

@angelicidee
@angelicidee
@angelicidee
@angelicidee

breeze ++ketsuyuki

reminiscent

rest in peace @seshspawn
https://soundcloud.com/seshspawn/4606ddd0-3313-4e70-aaa5-e0eac1b260ca

ib: @176s

seshspawn - a slave to my vessel (flip)

1. x - @selfautopsy
2. music fantasy - @selfautopsy
3. sometimes when i cant sleep
4. forevermore - @n8g4

secret crush

Low Light Currents is a five-track journey through motion, stillness, and atmosphere. Built around downtempo rhythms, deep bass textures, and subtle organic elements, the EP explores what happens beneath the surface when the pace slows and attention sharpens.

Each track moves with restraint rather than force — pulses instead of peaks — allowing space for detail, reflection, and flow. Warm low-end, airy synth layers, and distant melodic fragments create a sense of nighttime movement: quiet streets, long drives, and moments where time feels suspended.

The EP is designed for late-night listening, focused work, and immersive background environments, where emotion is present but never overstated. Low Light Currents doesn’t demand attention — it earns it gradually, unfolding as a continuous experience rather than a collection of singles.

This is atmospheric electronic music shaped by contrast: weight and light, motion and calm, clarity and haze — drifting forward, just below the surface.

Support

Still Between Waves

🌑 THE NIGHT‑BORN CANTICLE
A small ritual for those who listen in the dark

In the hour when shadows forget their names,
a slow pulse rises from the sand —
a circle of four chords, turning like an old lantern,
calling the wanderer into the quiet ceremony.

Guitars whisper in tremolo,
threads of silver pulled through the night air.
A bassline coils beneath them,
warm, patient, ominous,
as if guarding a secret no one remembers.

Percussion appears only when the spirits allow it:
🥁 a palm on stretched skin,
🔨 a wooden click,
🌑 a low pulse echoing under the ribs.
Nothing marches. Everything breathes.

Above, the temple hums:
🕸️ organ‑drones like distant constellations,
🌫️ detuned harmonics bending like incense smoke,
📼 tape‑warps drifting in and out of time
— the sound of an ancient room exhaling.

And then the voice:
a wind‑carried murmur,
half‑chant, half‑shadow,
never asking to be understood,
only to be followed.

This is not a song.
It is a threshold.
A small door in the desert night.
A ritual that opens only for those who walk slowly.

Mario‑core.
Collettivo‑dark‑core.
A vibration carved in the dark.

reminiscent

brokenarmor

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