I might just flow like this, they want it so bad, don't have the time to rest, creatives connects, watch out u might be misled, mama turning on the television, just so it could change their perception, vivid dreams but still living in blurry vision

Art remember

alzeus.bandcamp.com/album/tales-from-the-rails

ALZEUS - Ice Picks

Raws 02

dreams about you baby.......
funk and soul instrumental, boombap and smooth raw bby<3
mezclado y masterizado en menos d 10 min, you know.

prod. roJAZZloops.
2022.

Bonita

Jazzhead (Sold)

90.0 Bpm
Artwork by @nic1ak
Added vocals : Nas

The end

here is the 3rd and last Single taken from the upcoming Lp "Summer Madness" by @mad-vision released via flawless-delivery .
The track is a beatiful beat, guitar riffs combined with catchy and dreamy melodies.
Steady drums and a genuine groove are responsible to take you to another place.
You can stream the Single on all DSP´s:
https://lnk.dmsmusic.co/flawlessdeliverymdvsn_sirens

Album release date on: December - 2nd.
Be sure to follow @flawless-delivery & @mad-vision on Spotify, Bandcamp, Instagram, Apple Music......

Enjoy!

Flawless Delivery

Summer Madness

Sirens

Mdvsn - Sirens

Album Music Videos: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_DB6rTW1nEo&list=PLymNA9M985DgVuEZkgQMVel6v54ZiHZ_E
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Drown distraction in rain‑lit lofi beats—perfect for late‑night study & deep focus.
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Please follow - https://open.spotify.com/artist/3q0KcTUD3hmRdi1SUWd6VL
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Please follow - https://music.apple.com/us/artist/grass-patch-bum/1596136340
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Keep in touch with latest releases:
https://www.youtube.com/@grasspatchbum
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Aya curled her fingers around a chipped porcelain mug, the steam fogging her glasses as rain braided silver ribbons down the café window. Old Kumo City’s crooked lanes vanished into mist, leaving only the glow of rain-lamps—teardrop bulbs strung on sagging wires that shone brighter the wetter they became. Their honey-orange halos pooled in every puddle, turning the street into a trembling galaxy of tiny suns.

She opened her sketchbook to a fresh page. The blank paper shimmered under the lamp’s reflection, and for a heartbeat Aya thought she saw a pulse behind the page —as if it were breathing. She touched her pencil point to the center and drew the faint outline of a gateway: two weather-blackened pillars crowned with tangled wisteria that dripped rain like beads of quicksilver. Each pencil stroke felt less like graphite and more like tugging thin threads out of the falling water. When the final tendril of wisteria bloomed, the sketch glowed ember-soft, then burst into quiet lavender light.

The café around her stretched, smeared like wet paint, and Aya felt herself slip forward—through page and window and lamplight—into weightlessness.

She landed in an abandoned metro tunnel where the tracks floated several inches above the gravel, loose as ribbons in unseen water. Bioluminescent mushrooms crowded the sleepers, caps wide enough to shelter two people, their undersides dripping neon-green spores that drifted not down but up, filling the air like reversed snowfall. Somewhere far away a single wind chime sang one clear note, and the spores shimmered in sympathetic ripples.

An origami crane unfolded from shadow. Its paper wings were ink-black, but its eyes glowed citrate yellow. With a quick tilt of its head, the bird launched itself forward, flapping in slow, deliberate arcs. Aya followed, her footsteps whisper-light on the hovering rails. Gravity felt hesitant here, as if deciding every second whether to stay.

The tunnel curved, walls widening into a cavern lit by moonlight that had no source. Cracks in the stone let thin waterfalls bleed upward, threading through the air toward some invisible sea overhead. Whenever a droplet brushed Aya’s skin, kaleidoscopic patterns blossomed in her vision—mandalas of jade, magenta, and cerulean that folded into one another like living stained glass. She let herself drift, each breath thick with petrichor and possibility, until the crane slipped through a circular archway rimmed in tiles that pulsed faint electric blue. Aya stepped through and the world blinked again.

Wind rushed with the scent of wet cedar. A colossal corkscrew tree stood before her, its trunk spiraling toward a sky smeared in dusk purples and dawn blues at once. Around the trunk coiled a bazaar in mid-air—suspended balconies formed from giant lotus petals, each petal lined with stalls. Air-fish glided between vendors, translucent bodies flickering oranges and pinks, casting watercolor shadows across drifting banners. Bells chimed from every direction, their notes weaving together like threads on a loom.

Fox-masked merchants beckoned Aya with wave fans painted in shimmering ink. She explored slowly, fingertips skimming glass bottles that held clouds, marbles that contained sunsets, lanterns harboring sleeping fireflies. At one stall she paused: a tiny vial labeled Memory of Tomorrow rested on a velvet cushion. The merchant behind the table—tall, cloak stitched from scraps of midnight sky—did not speak. Instead, he pointed at Aya’s sketchbook.

Raws 02

fakename

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