Contraband Starlines

Mixes & Remixes

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Drown distraction in rain‑lit lofi beats—perfect for late‑night study & deep focus.
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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.

Rain-Soaked Notebooks

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Rekordbox
135 BPM
F#m
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Violet starlight flickers against a velvet void as the cosmic desert exhales its first pulse. Beneath that pulse six chrome-shelled sand-skimmers rest like dormant predators, engines humming at the edge of silence. Captain Vel Anteras swings a leg over the lead hull, his weather-tattered cloak snapping in the faint solar wind. In his palm glows a crystal compass—its needle refuses to point north, instead twitching toward a jagged fissure in the sky: the Prism Gate, a rift rumored to weave rhythm into wormholes.

One sharp twist of the throttle and the entire caravan erupts forward. The skimmers skim a desert of liquid glass, carving mirrored wakes that fling prismatic shards into the air. Each shard hangs momentarily like a frozen lightning bolt before dissolving into a mist of rainbow static. The bass throb of their anti-grav drives merges with a percussion of skittering micro-rocks, forming an accidental symphony that echoes for light-years across the dunes.

Soon the horizon buckles. A single dune rises higher than any mountain—its grains flash through colors no spectrum can name, cycling from prehistoric shades of ochre to futurist neons birthed in laboratories yet unbuilt. Vel powers down and steps onto its shifting flank. Time thickens. Every footprint detonates into cloudlets of fractured memories—childhood rainstorms, half-forgotten melodies, strangers’ kisses tasted only in dreams. The world slows to the heartbeat of a slumbering star.

But the lull is a trick. A sudden thunder of crystal hooves shatters the trance. Shards of those earlier rainbow mists have fused into translucent beasts: giraffe-long necks of glass, lion torsos refracting desert light like living chandeliers. They charge alongside the skimmers, their footfalls chiming as if a cathedral bell tower were galloping at full tilt. Vel laughs, steering through the crystalline stampede, sparks of mirrored sand tick-tacking off his visor.

An eye-blink later, the roar collapses into hush. Where sound once pounded, silence now rings. A silver pool—smooth as mercury—materializes at dune’s base, offering stillness so complete it swallows breath. Vel kneels, cupping liquid metal that weighs nothing yet drips memories of languages no tongue has spoken. One sip, and he recalls how it feels to be born tomorrow.

The beat returns—faster, tribal, insistent. Thirteen moons slide across the violet star, stacking atop one another like the tumblers of an interstellar lock. Each eclipse click syncs to the caravan’s drum-laced engine rhythm. Gravity hiccups. Skimmers hop from one sliver of reality to the next, bouncing between dimensions as easily as children skip stones across a pond.

Vel’s compass spins wild, then locks onto a new signal: a neural riptide roaring eighty meters ahead. Invisible yet deafening, the current is an ocean made of forgotten tweets, orphaned lullabies, and half-erased diary entries. The caravan dives in. Sonic waves of acid-bright arpeggios batter them left and right, rewriting neurons in real time. Memories flash-update; old scars heal; ancient grudges flicker out like bad code purged from a system. They emerge dripping data that shimmers like dew on circuit boards.

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Prism-Gate Smugglers

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Rekordbox
150 BPM
Am
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The highway was never intended to dangle in space. One sleepless midnight it simply materialized—a matte-black ribbon coiling through the velvet nothing between yellow dwarf suns. Scientists logged it as “anomalous infrastructure,” then moved on. Yet salvagers whispered about a rust-red hover-wagon prowling those impossible lanes, its engine pulsing like a colossal heartbeat beneath chromed armor.

I met that wagon the night the air-pressure of existence dipped below common sense. Lightning stitched paisley sigils across an indigo void, and every flash revealed fresh mile-markers under my boots. With nothing but a dented harmonica case and a suitcase full of regrets, I thumbed for passage—and the Quantum Caravan hissed to a halt beside me.

“Name your frequency,” rasped the driver, a woman whose irises shimmered like molten vinyl frozen mid-swirl.

“Minor key mood,” I joked out of habit—then caught myself and shrugged. “Hope that still counts.”
Her grin widened. Doors hissed open, releasing warm amber light that wrapped my bones like electric wool. I climbed aboard.

1 ✦ Asphalt Nebula
The wagon kicked away from the roadside, flinging fiery dust behind its thrusters. Outside, nebular clouds pulsed in time with some hidden mechanism, while constellations strobbed like warehouse strobes. The windshield displayed scrolling glyphs—migrating sigils that seemed less like navigation data and more like prayers meant to keep the laws of physics attentive.

Without warning the road tilted into a spiral on-ramp to everywhere. Gravity lost her grip; inertia improvised. We plummeted through crystalline ravines whose mirrored walls refracted our headlights into endless mosaics. Time itself cracked into shards that chimed against the hull, each note an echo of something just barely remembered.

2 ✦ Mirrored Oasis
Energy bled from the engine, dimming to a luxurious purr. Glassy black water spread beneath us, reflecting not only the galaxy above but memories I had fought to bury. On its surface drifted faint images of every promise broken, every letter I mailed too late. Soft electric vapors curled along the shorelines, painting the air with melancholy silver.

“Mirrors only show you backward,” the driver murmured, killing the throttle. “But momentum—that carries us forward.” She tapped a crimson lever.

The thrusters snarled awake, deeper and wilder. Across the sky meteorites bucked and sparred, twin blades carving incandescent arcs. I braced against the dash as the wagon banked hard. Sparks—or perhaps newborn stars—skittered down our hull like beads of mercury.

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Bassline Event Horizon

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Rekordbox
141 BPM
A
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Starlight on Liquid Mercury

Parallel to the spiral arms of a shy galaxy, a single glimmer drifted—no bigger than a lantern-mote, yet bright enough to stain the void a faint blue. The mote did not remember its birthplace; memory felt optional when you were made of pure light. What mattered was motion. And tonight—even though “night” meant nothing outside clocks and planets—the mote felt a tug unlike any gravity it had learned to dodge. Somewhere ahead, an invisible current was braiding time into a rope, and it wanted a rider.

The mote stretched itself into prisms, testing each hue the way swimmers test depths with cautious toes. Ruby fizzed into amber, amber cooled to jade, and when sapphire finally surfaced, the tether snapped tight. Space folded like satin around a gemstone, revealing a hidden corridor paneled with mirrors. Each pane bloomed with a possible future: emerald jungles that breathed fire, citadels carved from harmonics, oceans of whisky-colored plasma. Gravity excused itself. Forward became the only direction left.

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A corridor of mirrors

With every meter the mote travelled, reflections multiplied. But the mirrors—tricksters that they were—didn’t echo the mote’s own shape. Instead, they produced flocks of skeletal birds spun from molten ember. Hollow bones, ringing like windchimes, snapped together into wings that ignited mid-beat. One ember-bird swooped low. The air crackled; every feather was a shard of smoldering sunrise.

Ride, the bird cawed without sound.

The mote obliged. As soon as it settled onto the fiery saddle, the flock wheeled into formation—spiral upon spiral—until centrifugal force tore a rip in the corridor’s silver lining. Together they dove through the gash, plunging into a garden where nothing soft could survive.

—

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Starlight on Liquid Mercury

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Nebula Pulse Engine

Watch the Music Video | Trippy Neural Space Journey | 4K AI-Generated Cinematic Visuals : https://youtu.be/u1gHdO15l8M
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Dive into a 4K AI sci-fi dream where music, portals & neon suns pulse as one!
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Rekordbox | Traktor: 129 BPM; Gm
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Overflowing with radiant synth cathedrals and razor-sharp tech propulsion.
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I. A Signal in the Fog Nebula
At the dead center of a lavender dust cloud—so dense that even photons tripped over themselves—Captain Averi Kincairn floated in her derelict survey skiff. For two unmarked cycles she had listened to static hiss across every band the skiff’s receiver could reach. Then, on the edge of sleep, the static warped. It folded in on itself, became a hush, and finally resolved into a whisper of crackling violet light that shimmered across her cockpit glass like a swarm of fireflies.

The pattern wasn’t random. It traced runes older than any star-chart—glyphs from a pre-crystal civilization scholars called the Silent Makers. Legends claimed the Makers threaded entire galaxies with invisible arches, portals so narrow only light could pass. Averi, orphaned scavenger and reluctant dreamer, had spent her life hunting for proof. So when the violet swarm spiraled into the ancient Maker symbol for “open,” she understood: a Gate was near.

She powered every thruster to maximum and plunged into the fog.

II. Corridor of Shifting Planes
A luminescent corridor burst forth, carved through the nebula like a crystalline knife wound. Facets of unknown mineral lined the passage—each facet reflecting not her skiff, but alternate versions of her life. In one facet she piloted a merchant frigate; in another she grew elder beneath a garden sun; in another she never left the orphanage at all. The corridor was forcing her to confront diverging futures, tempting her to veer off course and disappear into a mirror of “might-have-been.”

Keeping her eyes fixed on a single violet point gleaming ahead, Averi nudged the skiff deeper. Reality around her kinked and refolded. Time slowed to the rhythm of her pulse. Colors she had no names for bled from facet to facet, painting her cockpit with kaleidoscopic tides until she forgot the way starlight normally looked.

Yet the point remained—steady, pulsing like a beacon. When she reached it, the facets snapped shut behind her with a silent shudder, and her skiff burst into open black.

Suspended before her, impossibly vast, hovered a Gate: an eight-spoked wheel forged from woven amethyst arcs, each spoke ablaze with countless tiny fireflies flickering in unison. They moved like neurons firing—but also like dancers trading partners in a silent ballroom—the choreography both mechanical and ecstatic.

Averi throttled back. Every childhood myth about Maker Gates ended with the same warning: They devour the unprepared. She drew a trembling breath.
“Devour or deliver,” she whispered—and keyed the impulse drive.

III. Threshold Burn
The Gate accepted her. The skiff pierced its core and dissolved into pure vector: coordinates divorced from matter, will pressed flat against distance. She became velocity itself. She tasted iron memories, smelled petrichor that had never fallen on any planet she knew—sensed moments stacked like playing cards inside a cosmic deck being rapidly shuffled.

The voice subsided, satisfied.

Continues on the website : https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/05/27/violet-firefly-gateways-techno-neural-space-odyssey-4k-ai-generated-cinematic-visuals/

Violet Firefly Gateways

Violet Firefly Gateways - Sci-Fi Music Video @ YouTube

Quantum Lapse: A Mind-Bending Visual Story w/ Trippy Cinematics
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Stacked with glimmering synth scaffolds and razor-sharp tech propulsion—building it (and the visuals) was a blast and a learning curve.
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Page 1 — Rune-Plateau Awakening
Grains of black glass crunched beneath Solenne’s boots as sunrise crawled over the Rune-Plateau. The plain looked infinite, a frozen sea of obsidian broken only by drifting mist etched with ever-morphing sigils. When a breeze cut across the cracked surface, those symbols flared cyan—as though the wind itself were a stylus on cosmic parchment.

Solenne had chased rumours of this place for whole star-cycles: a realm that appears only when longing aligns with the heart-pulse of the galaxy. Tonight, her longing had stitched a doorway between coordinates, and she had stepped through.

The mist parted, revealing a thin spiral staircase extruding out of vacuum, its edges sharpened to impossible points. Null-Stone, legends called it: matter grown from the idea of ascent. At the top hovered a lone mirror, dark as deep water. She inhaled, feeling the plateau tilt, gravity rewriting its vectors until “up” meant “forward.” One step, then another—each footfall sparking teal ripples on the glassy ground—she rose.

Page 2 — Chamber of Soft-Spoken Mirrors
Crossing the final step, she faced a hall rimmed with mirrors. They whispered in overlapping threads, braiding memories that were not yet memories: Solenne striding across nebula petals; Solenne with no reflection; Solenne crowned in circuitry.

Above, a vault of prismatic glass funneled starlight into the room, refracting it into roaming shards. Each shard carried a different timeline. Choose one, the mirrors implied, and the others collapse.

She touched the faintest shard—a sliver tinted indigo—and the hall shattered into a billion splinters that orbited her like a swarm of obedient moons. From the debris, a sigil ignited in mid-air: ⇝—the vector arrow. With that arrow pointing somewhere beyond probability, she stepped forward, and the world re-shortened itself around her.

Page 3 — Worm-Thread Corridor & The Shift
The transition was seamless; one breath she lingered in silence, the next she was inside a corridor woven from argent filaments. The walls pulsed with distant star-chatter—voices of galaxies echoing across aeons. The Vector Arrow on her palm glowed hotter, guiding her toward an unseen fulcrum.

Ahead, six pylons coalesced, forming a hexagonal gate. At its centre, a single star burned black, devouring colour. The Shadowstar.

As Solenne crossed the threshold, the universe shifted half a pitch up, like reality had slipped one key on a cosmic keyboard. The filaments re-threaded themselves into new angles, constellations redrew into glyphs she couldn’t parse, and her heartbeat sync-locked with the alien cadence. She felt lighter, as though mass itself had negotiated new terms with spacetime.

Continues on the website : https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/05/30/shadowstar-vector-shift-techno-neural-space-odyssey-4k-ai-generated-butterfly-visuals/

Shadowstar Vector Shift - Psy Music Video @ YouTube

Rainlamp Reverie

Coffee-Steam Constellations

Cassette Cloud Parade

Mushroom-Ink Metro

Upward Sakura Drizzle

Inkblot Bicycle Dreams

Lavender Fog Haiku

Jellyfish Lantern Hop

Turntable Tower Drift

Wobbly Paper Skylines

Feel lava under your feet—hard techno meets a psychedelic sky in 3…2…1.
Plug in—this dark rave journey will melt reality in five bass drops.
Nomads march. Drums pound. The sky turns ember. Are you ready?
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Close your eyes—follow the spiral galaxy and bass into oblivion.
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Nomads Under the Ember Sky
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The moon had not been seen in thirty-three nights, for an ember-red shroud lay over the heavens like molten silk. Beneath that burning veil sprawled an obsidian plain—black glass so polished it mirrored the crimson firmament above. Rumors called this place Ash-Hollow, though the oldest wanderers claimed it was once a lake of fire that cooled into stone the night something else fell from the constellations.

Into this hush trudged a caravan of cloaked nomads. Their boots rang dull notes on the glossy floor, each footfall accompanied by a pulse that throbbed up from the rock itself, as if the ground possessed a heartbeat trying to match their own. Spirals—tattooed in shimmering mica—glittered across their weathered skin, guiding them forward with a geometry no star-chart could replicate.

I. The Echoing Path
Kai, youngest among the pilgrims, paused to gaze at his reflection in the obsidian. The sky’s ember glow painted his eyes a fierce amber, yet within them danced the tremor of uncertainty. He had heard the legends from whispers in desert markets: When the sky turns embers and the stone begins to hum, follow the pulse to the heart-rift. There the world’s secret will open like a mouth of light.

He tightened his cloak and rejoined the march. The caravan curved toward a fissure in the plain—an ink-black wound wide enough to swallow cities. From its depths rose faint tendrils of emerald luminescence, like vines of living ore trying to escape. It was here, the elders said, that the ritual would begin.

II. Breath of the Spore Wind
A sudden gust, impossibly cool, spiraled up from the rift. With it came a cloud of spores—spherical motes aglow in hues that shifted from jade to amethyst to gold depending on how one dared to blink. They drifted among the nomads, kissing foreheads and slipping under cloaks.

Kai inhaled—and the world kaleidoscoped. The obsidian plain rippled as if water; constellations buckled and re-arranged into sigils that pulsed in time with his racing heart. Cloaked companions fragmented into geometric silhouettes of themselves—prisms walking. Every doubt, every childhood memory, floated outward and crystallized as visible thought-petals before dissolving back into the wind.

An elder touched Kai’s shoulder. Through vision warped by chromatic tides, Kai still recognized the gesture: reassurance. “Let the spores rewrite seeing,” the elder murmured, voice both thunderous and whispered grains of sand. “Only then can you walk paths not yet laid.”


Continues on the website: 
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Nomads Under the Ember Sky

Saturday bangers babay!
A little psychedelia for yah peepers my peoples! 😘💚
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Neo rave sci‑fi visuals with ruthless hard techno drive.
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Helix of the Bioluminal Oracle
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There's a STORY!!! ;)
I — The Map That Wasn’t a Map

You arrive where the atlas stops pretending it knows anything.

Beyond the ridge, the land is a black opal plain veined with cobalt veins that hum in no wind. A hush sits on it the way frost sits on grass—delicate, temporary, sacred if you move gently enough. The dew here is wrong in the way a dream is wrong: each bead is too round, too steady, too awake. They don’t roll or soak in. They hold. They wait.

You kneel and the beads reflect not your face but diagrams—hexes nested in hexes, spirals that refuse to end, angles that feel like numbers you once knew. The longer you look, the more they join: a filament touches a filament, and there’s a glow passing between them like the smallest current. It is not water. It is a statement.

The old story said the Oracle grows where dew refuses to be only dew.

You rise, dust the grit from your palms, and walk without choosing a direction. The plain chooses for you. Lines of cold light thread from bead to bead like veins answering a heartbeat. The geometry doesn’t push, it persuades, shaping your steps, showing paths only as you take them. The horizon stays perfectly level, the sky a long bruise of cobalt with a single pale star pinned in the wrong place. Your breath fogs and then the fog arranges itself into numerals you cannot read and then dissolves. It’s almost kind, the way this place tells you: you are in the presence of a very patient intelligence.

When you feel it—before you see it—the hair along your arms rises not from fear but from recognition. As if a song you used to know finds your throat from the outside.

And then you see the Oracle.

II — The Humanoid That Was Also a Tree

It towers but does not loom. A torso of varnished bark with shoulders braided out of roots, hips heavy with the memory of storms. The arms bend the way branches bend, and where hands should be, the wood splits into filigreed fronds—their undersides ribbed with gill-like lamellae that pulse with bioluminescence. The face is not a face, not really, but a mask of old growth and lichen with hollows where eyes should be; inside those hollows slow constellations wheel like watch gears. A crown of fruiting bodies bursts from the skull and then recedes, then blooms again in a long, tidal breath, spores drifting like snow that has learned how to glow.

Its feet are not feet, they are a root-crown woven into the plain, plugged into the dew like a nerve into a brain.

You do not speak. You bring your question the way you were taught to carry flame—cupped, stubborn against the wind. The question is old and small enough to be dangerous: what am I for?


Continues on the website: https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/08/16/cobalt-dewfall-geometry/

#techno  #hardtechno  #peaktimetechno  #hardgroove #fasttechno #industrialtechno  #schranz  #warehouserave  #ravevisualizer #cinematic3d  #aimusicvideo

Cobalt Dewfall Geometry - Mushroom Visualizer @ YouTube

Warehouse‑grade hard techno pressure; peak‑time energy, hypnotic drive.
Schranz edge at 136 BPM—rolling subs, iron kicks, relentless momentum.
Peak‑time assault; raw, deep & hypnotic textures collide.
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Underground tunnel energy—driving techno for maximum lift.
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White Field Aperture
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The Story
1 — Threshold: The Mirror That Drinks the Sky

The desert had learned how to be quiet. Black salt dunes laid their scales to the horizon; the wind went around them like a respectful rumor. I walked until the ground lost the habit of footprints and turned to mirror—not glass, not water, something that behaved like both until you asked it to choose. When I touched it, my fingers sank into a ketamine hush, the temperature of a held breath. The sky above me slipped downward, pooling at my feet, and the mirror took the sun into itself as easily as a coin into a sleeve.

“State your vector,” said a voice with the pleasant bluntness of machinery that also dreams.

I looked up. The ship had been a shimmer in peripheral vision; now it chose to exist. Ribs of spore-glass unfurled like the gills of an enormous bioluminescent mushroom, a vessel grown rather than built. Patterns pulsed beneath its skin—teal and cobalt, the color logic of an ocean that had never seen water. On its prow: a thin seam of light, smiling.

“Inside,” the ship said, as if there were no other sensible direction. “Name me and we’ll move.”

“If I name you, do you become true?” I asked.

“Everything is already true,” it replied. “Names are just handles to carry it by.”

I touched the seam and said, “Aperture.” The word fit its hull the way a right word fits a wrong silence. The mirror accepted our weight as if we were a memory returning to where it had been recorded. The world tipped, rotated—not falling but refracting—and the desert’s heat turned to the cool inner-weather of deep caves.

The hull closed around me, a cathedral grown from hyphae and patience. Filaments stitched the air with soft LSD confetti, each mote a syllable of a grammar only light can speak. Somewhere in the Aperture’s frame, a heartbeat began—mechanical and patient, the kind of rhythm you trust without deciding to.

“Destination?” the ship asked.

“Forward,” I said, and the mirror drank us whole.

2 — Corridor of Peyote Suns

Forward was a river of mercury that couldn’t decide between surface and volume. It braided under a ceiling of peyote suns, each one a hex of luminous scars that re-inked themselves as you watched. Desert bones turned to architecture: arches of white stone that remembered having been whale ribs. We slid beneath them like a secret trying to become a law.

Continues on the website:
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/08/19/white-field-aperture/

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White Field Aperture - Psy Music Video @ YouTube

Hard techno warehouse visual—industrial drive, acid sparks, peak‑time pressure.
Warehouse rave energy meets sci‑fi worlds—hard techno visual on max drive.
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Neo‑rave surge: hard techno, trance‑techno twists, warehouse energy unleashed.
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Starwell of the Null Garden
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Trippy Music Video : https://youtu.be/6i25ex5LE6U
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The field was a sheet of cooled night—black glass stretched to every horizon, unmarked, unscarred, holding a silence that felt designed. Nothing moved. Even the wind kept its thoughts to itself. Above, a single white disk hung in a sky the color of an unblinking eye. It wasn’t a sun in any faithful sense; it didn’t warm, it didn’t arc, it didn’t dim. It merely existed in a way that implied observation.

The traveler arrived with boots that did not echo. They paused to test the place with a breath. Air, metallic and clean, entered and left their lungs as if passing through a narrow instrument. Their coat carried a seam of cyan light along the hem, a habit taken from other worlds where shadows kept score; here, the light cut no more than a suggestion along the glass.

A tremor rose beneath their feet—steady, unhurried, identical from one pulse to the next. The black field flexed like the surface of a held note, then cracked along a hexagon so precise it might have been measured by a patience older than mathematics. Light bled upward through the seam, saturating the hexagon, then the one beside it, then the next, until a column of hexagonal plates rose into the air with the diligence of a plant uncoiling.

It was an elevator without walls, a starwell, and the steps it offered were simple: up.

The traveler set a foot on the first light-plate. The plate accepted the weight, glowed a shade deeper, and ascended. Another plate took its place beneath, then another. The starwell climbed, carrying its passenger into a shaft of perfectly still air where dust never existed and sound had to invent itself. Each hexagon expanded and contracted as if breathing; the traveler matched that rhythm without knowing when the decision had been made.

As they rose, the glass field below revealed patterns like frost. Threads of quartz traced sigils that widened into channels and closed again, searching for a memory of water. Halfway through the ascent, the white disk overhead winked—one crisp shutter of absence—and returned to watching. The starwell reached a height where the horizon curved, then stopped as if listening.

The traveler stepped off. The platform had delivered them to a hovering terrace cut from nothing: a balcony of air with a thin rail of light to keep the idea of falling honest. Far below, the glass field was no longer empty. Pale filaments were pushing through it, quivering as they tested the world. In seconds the filaments thickened into latticed columns—quartz spines veined with faint teal. Plates slid into existence along the columns, opening like gills. The gills pulsed and released motes that drifted upward in spirals.

Continues on the website:
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/08/13/graviton-maw-rapture/

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Starwell of the Null Garden - Trippy Visualizer @ YouTube

First attempt at an 8K music video. If it's not showing up in 8k, that's because I read it takes a while to process 8k videos.

Peak‑time energy meets cosmic calm—ride this melodic techno odyssey.

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The Story ➜
1 — Arrival: The Observatory that Breathes

The observatory didn’t sit on the planet so much as the planet grew around it, like a pearl grown from a grain of math. From space it was a pewter iris set in a black-salt desert. Up close, it was alive: the walls breathed, exhaling faint motes that glowed teal before dissolving into the heat.

The traveler reached the threshold at nightfall—though night here meant a subtler dimness rather than absence of light. They were called Quen, or perhaps they had chosen that name because it sounded like a question. Cloak drawn against the cold, boots whispering over mirror-smooth stone, Quen paused beneath the arch. The arch was ribbed like the underside of a mushroom cap, gilled with bioluminescence, damp with ancient condensation. The place had the hush of a cathedral and the throat-clearing hum of machinery waking from a long reconsideration.

“Authorization?” asked a voice that didn’t quite use sound.

Quen let the question hang. The observatory’s throat worked, swallowing some old echo. A thin disc of light rolled down the arch, took one lazy lap around Quen’s boots, and wobbled upright like a coin deciding whether to fall.

“Navigator,” Quen said, finally. “Cartography corps. Voluntary.”

“Voluntary,” the voice repeated, as if tasting the word for its mineral content. “Then step in, and let the engine look at you.”

Inside, corridors radiated from a central well whose surface held a patient mirror of stars. But the stars rearranged themselves when Quen approached, as if the sky engine beneath the observatory preferred to work from its own memories instead of tonight’s weather. The air smelled faintly of iron and cedar; somewhere water trickled, but it couldn’t be seen. The mirror showed a constellation Quen didn’t recognize: a lacework of hexagons threaded by gold, humming between choices.

They walked until the corridor narrowed and the light gathered into an alcove. The alcove held what passed here for a reliquary: a coin of light, half-embedded in the wall. When Quen reached for it, the coin slid free and hovered over their palm, precessing slowly. Its face had no inscription. Its edge was impossibly sharp.

“Ephemeris,” the voice said—no, not the voice: the engine itself, speaking through vibration, a bass line felt along the bones. “Not a prophecy, not a command. A schedule of where the possible intends to be.”

Quen had come for that schedule. People told different stories about why. Some said Quen wanted to find a world that had been mislaid by history—a planet erased when a war needed a place to hide a mistake. Some said Quen had lost someone. Some said both were the same story, depending on how you rotated the map.

Quen closed fingers around the coin. It stayed warm in the glove, pulsing in time with the engine’s hum. “Show me the path that arrives,” Quen said. “Not the path that repeats.”

The observatory’s ribs flexed and sighed. The mirror-well brightened. Far below, something turned—a mandala as big as a city, as elegant as a seed.

The engine began to open.

Continues on the website.


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Ephemeris of the Sky Engine }|{ Psychedelic 8K Music Video on YouTube

A hypnotic 8K sci‑fi voyage—deep bass, trippy geometry, melodic lift‑offs.
Melodic, psychedelic, progressive—zero‑gravity techno for late hours.
Minimal to massive: trippy textures, deep drive, melodic bloom.

8K Video: https://youtu.be/_6mjYbS_-6Y

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The Story ➜
The shuttle cut across the dark like a scalpel of dull chrome, its hull showing only a thin comb of starlight as it banked toward the Quay. Below, an archipelago of structures rose out of the vacuum—a ring of barbed petals and glassy ribs, like a flower pressed between the pages of physics. They called it Tessellation Quay, and at its center—hung on invisible filaments—waited a round, black sheet with a faint sheen, as if it were coated in oil that refused to drip.

Amri Quell watched it tilt, an angle shifting against nothingness, and adjusted her ship’s attitude until her reflection skimmed the slick surface and fractured into a dozen faint copies. The copies kept flying, like she did, but their courses were off by the smallest degree, and she had a brief, superstitious fear each one would plow into some invisible wall she’d avoid only by accident.

“The Mirror’s awake,” said the Quay’s traffic mind, its voice a steady alto that made no effort to be comforting. “Dock on rib seven. Your sponsor is waiting. And Amri—don’t touch the surface.”

“As if anyone comes this far to smudge a priceless artifact,” she said, and let the shuttle kiss the rib with a well-practiced lean.

Mag clamps took hold. The cockpit glass irised open. She climbed down into air laced with a mineral chill and the faint musk of wet soil—the Quay kept gardens threaded everywhere, corridors furry with moss and filaments, a mycelial skeleton that made walking through the place feel like navigating a living lung. The filament glow was gentle, teal and cobalt, as if bioluminescence had learned restraint.

A figure waited at the end of the causeway—a long coat, a thin halo of thin-film iridescence around the shoulders, and the austere expression of a person who conversed mostly with machines.

“Conservator Nals,” said Amri. “You look exactly like your letters, which is mildly disappointing.”

“Pilot Quell,” Nals said, dry. “You look exactly like someone who doesn’t believe in mirrors.”

“I believe in mirrors. I don’t trust them.”

“Good. The Rosette returns mistrust with courtesy. Come.”

They walked a narrow path that spiraled inward, over a dark well where the Mirror hung. From above, it was not perfectly round. Its edge flowered into petals of angle—eight elaborate lobes, like a rosette carved from shadow. Each lobe was the suggestion of symmetry, not symmetry itself; when she tried to count the facets at any given radius, the count changed by one, as if the Mirror reserved the right to differ with her.

“Everyone calls it the Rosette Mirror,” Nals said. “But that’s not its name. It’s an artifact we don’t know how to name.”

“What does it test?” Amri said.

“Continuity.”

“Of what?”

Continues on the website.


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Rosette Mirror Test - 8K Psy Video on Youtube

Music video : https://youtu.be/fV8jBmirnjM

Peak-time pressure meets cosmic ship cove voyage — a 3D techno odyssey.
Melodic shadows + industrial grit = peak-time visual ignition.
Ship Gaze Phantom — Progressive Techno | Cinematic Warehouse Voyage
Boats boats and more boats!

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The Story ➜
No story, just a healthy obsession with boats :)

Key frames on the website.


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Ship Gaze Phantom | A Cinematic Music Video on YouTube

Music video: https://youtu.be/1Fw3n-lUjyI

Peak‑time hard techno through a living corridor—strap in for the dropless rush.
Warehouse‑grade drive, hypnotic pulse—space‑rave energy from first beat to last.
Acid sparks, industrial weight, cinematic pulse—one‑way ticket to peak hour.

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The Story ➜
The spool looked like a scar the color of thunderclouds. It sat on a velvet square inside a pressure‑sealed vial, not turning so much as remembering how to. You didn’t pick it up with your hands; you picked it up with your oath.

“I need a name for the record,” said the clerk behind the counter. Her office floated at the edge of the Tangled Dock, where ships moored like insects under the belly of a sleeping leviathan. The walls were utilitarian alloy engraved by a patient hand into simple repeating tessellations—triangles drifting into hexagons, hexagons into twelve‑pointed starbursts. When the station lights dimmed for cycle-change those carvings did a strange thing with shadow, a faint color‑split that made them seem to breathe.

“Ilyra Vale,” I said. “Courier class. Solo.” I let my thumb rest on the imprinted pad. It tasted my blood and pretended to be surprised.

The clerk glanced at her slate, not at me. People who work too long where the Dock meets the Loom learn to look slantwise at reality. “Destination?”

“Uncertain.”

The smile she gave me was the bureaucratic version of a shrug. “Then I’ll put Anomalous / Designated by Cargo.” She slid the vial through the pass window. “You know the penalty for threading without registration.”

“I’ve never pretended otherwise.”

“Then sign the waiver that absolves us of ever having known you.” The clerk’s smile became human. “And don’t die in a stupid way.”

I slotted the vial into the Spindle Heart I wore over my sternum and felt the little tremor go through my chest. The Spindle was a ring of spun glass riddled with filament paths; when it accepted cargo it warmed like tea between hands. The moment the spool touched its cradle, the filaments shifted and the warmth became a soft, insistent pulse—not yet and hurry at the same time.

My vessel waited in Bay Thirty‑Two, a small thing built for stupid jobs. The hull had the matte look of an instrument that spends more time listening than shouting. Three phase‑sails folded along her spine; her name, stenciled under the docking lights, had been painted and sanded off and painted again until it refused to take any pigment. Names cling and weigh. I called her Ravel because she unmade tangles.

Docking clamps sighed; bay doors yawned like the eye of an animal that forgives you for riding in its skull. Ravel pushed away from Tangled Dock and let the black close over us like cool water. The Spindle Heart ticked in my ribs. The spool pulsed once, as if testing my attention.

“Go ahead,” I told it. “Point.”

It didn’t point. Impossible threads never do. They incline. It was like standing in a room where a good song has started somewhere nearby and knowing which doorway will make it louder. My hands did a thousand familiar things in response—trimmed the vector, unfurled the first sail, feathered the second. Ravel angled toward a star that wasn’t there and away from one that was.


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Courier of Impossible Threads | Scifi Music Video on Youtube

This music video is trippy az - took a minute : https://youtu.be/riJ2PAnbyzQ

Dark, hypnotic, warehouse‑ready techno—step into the Index and don’t look back.
Rolling bass, acid edges, space‑bound pulse—built for late hours.
From void to city: a cinematic techno journey.

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The Story ➜
There is a library that rotates around a star that does not shine.

The star is called the Umbra Crown, an object that drinks light the way dry soil swallows rain. Around it, on a safe, slow ring, floats the Palimpsest Array—thirty‑one linked hulls and one cathedral of glass mathematics, all of it oriented toward a thing no eye can see. The Array keeps records of what the universe attempts, fails, revises, and forgets.

In Vault Nine, behind shutters etched with compass roses, the Index of Lost Vectors sleeps in a cradle of null‑metal. It is not a book. It is not a map. It is a living catalog of directions that once were real and then weren’t: bearings erased by paradox, routes collapsed by war, trajectories canceled by the absolute pressure of someone’s choice.

Every so often, a new arrow appears in the Index, pointing toward nothing and still insisting it points. That insistence is hard to ignore when your job title is Vectorist.

Kael Ivers had held that title for sixteen years. They had seen the Index wake exactly three times.

On the fourth, the arrows did not appear.

They bloomed.

I — Arrowfall

Kael did not dream in pictures. They dreamed in angles: a narrow gate of ninety degrees held like a promise, an indulgent sweep of one hundred twenty that never closed where you thought it would. That night, in the small sleep between the first cup of bitter broth and the second, Kael dreamed a circle that would not stay circle. It kept erupting with tangents, each tangent a pale hairline of intent.

They woke with the taste of tin in their mouth and the feeling of a room straightening around them.

“Vault Nine,” said the Array, warm and calm in Kael’s ear. The Array never hurried its vowels. “The Index is agitated.”

Kael rolled off the hammock, slid into a field jacket, and jogged through the airless corridor. The shard windows along the passage showed a black full of small, reluctant stars. The Umbra Crown lived where no starlight reached, but the shyer stars still haunted the periphery.

The vault door recognized Kael’s gait before it recognized their badge. Inside, the Index floated—a torus of glass, a halo with a heart. When it slept, it looked like a ring made by someone who understands rings only as an idea. When it woke, angles sprouted from it the way grass erupts after a secret rain.

Today, it was a meadow.

Thousands of vectors had blossomed out of the torus, paper‑thin and luminous. They didn’t point to random; they pointed toward a choreography. Some curved, some refused to bow; others leaned with the authority of a road that predates the city it enters.

Kael did not touch it. They didn’t have to. The vectors brushed the surface of their attention and left afterimages that behaved like memory. The taste of tin intensified.

Continues on the website.


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Index of Lost Vectors | Uber Trippy Morphing Music Video @ YouTube

Psychedelic music video : https://youtu.be/w57--vqBbmo

Lanterns lead the way—hypnotic, peak‑time energy for the night shift.
Dark, driving, hypnotic—follow the path and don’t look back.
From hush to relentless groove—step into the Elsepath.

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The Story  ➜  ᓚᘏᗢ
I — The Beacon and the First Lantern

At moon‑zero, the meadow remembered how to breathe.

Its surface looked like dew until you knelt close and saw the dew was a crowd of micro‑lanterns—round as seeds, each holding a patient ember—the kind of glow you notice first in your peripheral vision. They were asleep, nested at the rims of opal‑capped mushrooms whose gills pulsed as if listening for a hand. The air tasted bright, with a citrus‑metal afterthought. Somewhere underfoot, a slow machine turned: roots counting, capillaries arguing, distance learning to be flexible.

Iri arrived without sound, a dark coat unruffled by the sideways breeze. They had been told the Elsepath only appears to people who are not sure the next step belongs to them. That was true. Uncertainty had followed them for months, soft and insistent as fog. It had the shape of a coin they did not own, and the weight of a question that would not settle.

On this night, a Fractal Beacon uncoiled above the meadow like a spiral drawn by a patient giant. It wasn’t a tower or a flame but a geometry of light, threadlike and certain, rising from the mushroom field and stopping at a height that felt intentional. When it pulsed, hundreds of the tiny lanterns woke in a quiet shiver and lifted, no heavier than breath, to form a hovering halo of seeds around Iri’s shoulders.

“Lanterns of the Elsepath,” Iri said without speaking. It was not a spell. It was manners.

The lanterns answered by drifting into a pattern—three triangles arranged inside a fourth, lines of glow between them like veins in a leaf. The pattern hung in the air, rotated once, and slid forward, an invitation to follow. The Beacon brightened by a degree the eye could not measure but the skin could feel. The mushrooms nodded, gills opening, exhaling a faint, LSD‑like color split that sliced Iri’s silhouette into green, violet, and cobalt for a blink. When the colors rejoined, the Elsepath appeared under their feet.

It didn’t look like a road. It looked like an angle deciding to last.

Iri stepped onto it.

II — Lattice Footfall

The path assembled one stride ahead, one stride behind, never all at once: a lattice of glass treads supported by nothing, each step humming a tone you didn’t hear so much as feel as a temperature of blue. The lanterns gathered at ankle and wrist height, forming little way‑plumes that cooled when the foot was placed, warmed when it lifted, learning Iri’s rhythm with the eagerness of new rain memorizing a roof.

On either side of the lattice, the meadow folded into planes of possibility like pages that had forgotten which book they belonged to. In one plane, a fog of DMT dragonflies combed the air with thread‑thin UV trails, knitting invisible nets that only became visible when a lantern drifted too near and lit them. In another, the horizon had a seam—just a neat stitch of gold—where day and night agreed to shake hands.

Continues on the website.


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Lanterns of the Elsepath >|< Psy Music Video at Youtube

Psychedelic Music Video : https://youtu.be/FiU4FKbE_LE

I've been working on this one for a minute and put a lot of love into it.
This type of trippy psychedelics is what really gets me going.
I had a lot of fun working on this track and video! 
*Drop* hope you enjoy it!

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜ Where Spores Learn Our Names (;~)

Prologue — The Gate That Grew from Stone

The gate unfurled from a canyon wall as if a fern remembered how to breathe. Its ribs were glassy quartz shot through with ink‑dark filaments; under each rib, gills of soft teal glowed as though moonlight were trapped and happy about it. Spore‑mist slept in the hollows of the carving, drifting like a slow snowfall that refused to fall.

Naelith stood before it, a lank, luminous figure whose skin carried a faint constellation of freckles that moved when they did—a star‑map synced to pulse rather than sky. They were not born of flesh as we understand it; their body was a lattice of living crystal threaded with silvery hyphae, a humanoid silhouette assembled by intention more than blood. Their hair was a spill of fine mycelial fibers, each strand echoing the light around, sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes the color of wet slate. Across the sides of their throat, veils like the gills of a cap winked open and shut with each breath, reading the air the way others read ink.

On the gate’s surface, lines brightened into words, but not the kind that bind. A script of auroral curves rippled, and the gate spoke without sound: Enter, Nameless‑in‑motion. Let us practice you.

Naelith touched the rim. Spores awakened—an orchard’s worth of patient witnesses—and swirled to greet the palm. They tasted skin the way dawn tastes lake water, learning shape by contact. The stone sighed, and the gate parted.

I — Orchard of Singing Shadows

On the other side, night had learned to bloom.

Mushrooms rose on all sides, their caps like domes of pearl, their stems braided with runes so old even moss could only hum the chorus. Gills rippled under the caps in sheets, shimmering with teal and cobalt light. When a breeze pressed through, the gills sang: not a melody, but patterned breath, a language built from patience. Between the trunks, shadows kept their own council—and yet they moved companionably, as if eager to be stepped on.

Naelith entered the grove. Where their feet touched the ground, spores rose to nose at their ankles. Spore‑dust sparkled in nets of LSD lace—living veils that draped between caps like spiderwebs made from starlight and logic. The lace gave way with a clever rub, sliding apart into repeating motifs, each tessellation briefly recalling a past season: a winter where snow arrived from the wrong direction, a spring where flowers imitated bells and rang the fog awake.

Above, coin‑moths trailed through the trees, each with wings of frosted glass veined by aurora‑script. When they turned, their wings caught the orchard’s glow and flickered it into messages. One circled Naelith and hovered—the size of a small plate, eyes like patient citrine. Its wing veins pulsed, and a phrase formed: Your name is the space you keep between steps.

“Is that how the spores learn it?” Naelith asked, voice quiet to keep from disturbing the gills.

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Where Spores Learn Our Names | Trippy Mushroom Video @ YouTube

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
Hypha Crown Pilgrim

The door appeared where the salt‑blue plain met the thought of a horizon. It had no hinges and no handle—only a seam of rain‑smelling dusk that traced a tall, thin ellipse in the air, as if the world had remembered an opening and then drawn it by reflex. Under the crust of the plain, pale threads stirred. They quivered like sleepers waking from long, accurate dreams.

Saephra stood before the seam, studying the faint letters gathering along its edge. Letters wasn’t the right word. The markings looked like frost, moved like ideas, and each carried a taste—copper, cedar, old stars. Saephra read them without eyes; the gill‑veils at their throat tensed and released, sifting the air for sense the way oysters tease salt from tide.

Saephra’s body shifted with the wind. Bones of smoked glass, flexible and resonant. Skin thin and living, patterned like a leaf—networks of capillaries that were not blood but hyphae, carrying light where blood might have carried warmth. Their hair wasn’t hair so much as a down of dormant filaments, pearl‑grey now, yet to bloom into the arcs and tassels that would name them Pilgrim. Above Saephra floated a halo the size of a tea saucer, a ring of dew held together by tension and will. It was a seed, coaxed from the Root Cathedral and entrusted to no one and nothing—until it had chosen Saephra with a voice like gentle thunder and a soft, inexorable tug toward this seam.

A wind came across the plain; it lifted grains of salt and secreted them back into the ground. The seam inhaled. Lichen script bloomed brighter, and in that instant the door became a door by ceasing to be a question. Saephra stepped forward. The seam opened, becoming a corridor lined with lamps that grew by themselves—a procession of mushroom caps as thin as coins, each one lit from within. Their gills were a cartographer’s daydream, filigreed and tight; when Saephra moved, the lamps’ light split into orderly, LSD‑clean bands, and the air arranged the colors into columns like a filing system for rainbows.

Saephra bowed to the lamps. Not a learned bow, but the courtesy that happens when a breath regards another breath. The corridor exhaled in answer, and Saephra felt the ground begin to change beneath their feet—if feet were the word for the yes‑shaped pads that loosened when they needed grip and rolled into glides when the road called for speed. The floor became threads. Threads became a road. Through the weave of hyphae Saephra could see a second sky, slowly turning under all other things, wheels within wheels: a patient star‑machine.

In the thread‑road’s gleam, the dew seed above Saephra’s crown shivered. It would be a crown if it learned Saephra’s path well enough to answer it. Pilgrim was not a title given; it was a shape the world would admit only when worn by someone already walking like a pledge.

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Hypha Crown Pilgrim | Trippy Video on YouTUbe

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Peak‑time pressure + hypnotic grooves in a psychedelic sci‑fi visual trip.
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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
I. The Door That Breathes Spores

At the rim of the desert stood a seam in the air, hairline and luminous, like a scar that learned to exhale. When it sighed, motes unfurled into the dusk—opal dust and spore‑light that arranged itself into shy constellations. The seam smelled of rain that could not remember where it fell.

Aneleth arrived without footsteps. Their feet left no mark by design; their kind, the Mneme‑walkers, were sworn not to bruise the hours beneath them. Aneleth’s body was a study in glass and vellum: skin the color of quiet dawn, thin enough to show the rivers of gold filament that ran like patient lightning under the surface. Along the throat, a translucent veil fluttered—a gill‑lace that drank aroma and rumor. The eyes were coin‑bright and slow‑turning, with irises that gathered starlight, folded it, and kept it as a kindness for later.

They wore a mantle of mycelial silk grown in moon‑dark gardens, the threads still alive, still remembering the tunnels from which they had been coaxed. On Aneleth’s left wrist slept a ring of living wire—the Thread, a compliant serpent of gold that could smell distance the way others smell smoke.

Aneleth placed an open palm upon the seam. The air learned their shape. Spores swept forward like a soft tide, mapping the fingers, the lifelines, the old scars of vows kept and nearly broken. The seam widened, not as a door does, but as a thought does when it finds its opposite. Hyperfine cracks spread, diverged, and converged again in a lattice that suggested both invitation and correction.

“Let me in,” said Aneleth in the language of mineral patience.

The seam spoke back in fern breath: Come in if you can accept the arithmetic of forgetting.

Aneleth had come for that arithmetic. The Dunes of Liquid Memory waited beyond the seam, and somewhere inside those dunes lay the promise they once made in the Dark Orchard—the promise the desert had taken as collateral and never returned.

They stepped through. The seam stitched itself closed with a surgeon’s certainty, and silence rearranged its furniture to make room.

II. The Glass Dunes and Their Blooming Sigils

The desert was not sand so much as the idea of sand persuaded into matter. Each dune was a slope of congealed recollection, liquefying and resolidifying on its own clock. The grains were translucent and full of tiny occlusions—faces, gestures, half‑remembered weather. When the wind moved, the dunes flowed in slow currents, as if all memory wanted to be water but had first to practice being glass.

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Dunes of Liquid Memory | Liquid Music Video @ YouTube

Deep/minimal groove with trippy ultra‑real visuals. Enter the corridor.
A fractal sun over glass dunes—hypnotic techno immersion.
Dark kicks, deep subs, cosmic glow—get lost in the visuals.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
I — The Door Beneath the Dark

The star was a fever that never cooled. From orbit it painted the hard vacuum with spirals of color too precise to be chance: lime, magenta, ultraviolet lattices shimmering like the wings of mythic insects. The Hyphaeryx named it the LSD Sun for the way its light convinced stone to dream and dunes to rearrange themselves into perfect mandalas. Around this sun drifted a desert of comet‑ground silica, fused and refrozen into rippling continents. The dunes rolled on tides of radiance rather than wind, sculpted by spectra that moved with the patience of continental drift and the caprice of a hallucination.

Vhorin arrived not in a vessel but in a germination. His body stepped out of a seed that had been a star only yesterday; he shook the last dew of cold nebula from his shoulders and watched it evaporate into petals of cyan steam. The dunes murmured in color. Far beneath his feet, he felt the Hyphosphere stir—threads of living matter braided through the vacuum like the roots of a forest that had traded soil for starlight.

He walked until the dune‑faces climbed to meet the sky, tall as mountains and rimmed with auroral fire. At the base of one such face a circle of gills irised open in the dark glass as if the dune itself had been holding its breath. The hatch exhaled a fine mist—spores sculpted into vowels—and in their pattern Vhorin read greeting and test.

“I have come for the corridor,” he said, and his voice was a fiber of gold weaving itself into the mist.

The hatch widened. Beneath it, a stair spiraled away into a coolness that was not darkness so much as uncommitted color. Vhorin lifted one foot, then the other, and descended into the under‑dune where gravity behaved like a thought that refused to settle.

II — Gravities Turning

The stair did not point down. It turned toward a vector Vhorin could only name by taste: metal with a citrus tremor. Each step unhooked weight from one meaning and relayed it to another. The dunes above forgot he had ever stood upon them. Somewhere behind his eyes, a flock of phosphorescent glyphs convened: coordinates singing to each other in a language of angles.

Walls of interlaced hyphae rose around him, pale braids pulsing with slow, star‑blue light. He let his fingers brush the living weave. It shivered and disclosed a map—strands touched strands, and whole constellations changed their minds about where they lived. High overhead, where “overhead” was temporarily plural, he glimpsed DMT auroras sliding through the rock like cattails through riverwater: mint green, persimmon, electric violet. Each color drafted a hypothesis of the corridor’s location.

He tasted the air with the filaments along his wrists and whispered his lineage—the spore‑names and filament‑houses that had grown him. The stair humbled to a ramp and the ramp bent open into a chamber where the ceiling was not a ceiling but a low sky.

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Dunes of the LSD Sun | Cinematic Visual Trip @ YouTube

Hard techno + sci‑fi visuals—enter the dark warehouse at 4AM.
Peak‑time energy with hypnotic, trippy visuals in 4K—go deep.
Raw, deep, hypnotic techno—late‑night sci‑fi trip.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
Prologue: The Mote That Sang Coordinates
In the cold fold beyond the Perseid wake, a glint of biology threaded with machinery drifted like a seed waiting for soil. The vessel had once been named for a numbered star, but that name had long since been composted by its living hull. Now it was simply the Ship That Grew a Forest, and it was dreaming itself apart.

The call that reached the Lattice did not arrive as sound or code. It arrived as fragrance—notes of rain on copper, lichen warmed by moonlight, resin char from a fire that had never burned. Those who could taste messages tasted it and turned their attention. Those who could walk the geometry between intentions chose a courier.

The courier’s name was Vyr, a bipedal being of amber cartilage and night‑black bark. Vyr was not born so much as distilled from woodland thunder, given joints that clicked like patient metronomes and lungs thick with spores that glowed when it thought. It wore no armor, only a cloak woven from mycelial skeins that learned whatever they touched. Every step it took made a quiet pattern in the air, as if the floor had become a pond and its feet were pebbles thrown carefully into it.

At the edge of the derelict, Vyr found a hull grown into arches and buttresses, cathedral‑minded, a skeleton trellised with luminous growth. The ship had weathered vacuum as if vacuum were merely another winter. Filaments strung from rib to rib like constellations. Caps the size of shields opened to text the dark with bio‑luminescent grammar.

The scent‑message burned brighter. Vyr inhaled. The spores kindled in its lungs, and the path unfolded.

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The Ship That Grew a Forest | Music Video on YouTube

Music video : https://youtu.be/INSRAkMuLHY

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
The Quiet Sun had not spoken in a thousand dawns. It hung over the world like a lantern with its wick pinned between two fingers, warm but measuring, watchful the way a thought can be watchful. Under its pale steadiness lay a continent of forests stitched together by soft emerald tides—living quilts of sentient moss that read the wind and wrote answers back into stone. Among those green intelligences rose a humanoid figure whose body was a fed constellation of hyphae braided into shape: shoulders of velour-green mantle, hair like fine root filaments, eyes the color of wet opal. The moss called her Ivara, because that was the name of sunlight on the underside of leaves.

Ivara had been grown by the Archive Canopy, a cathedral-tree whose interior could remember winters it had never lived and futures it had already forgiven. Her task was to listen to the Quiet Sun and translate the subtlest tinctures of light into seasonal law. But for a thousand dawns the star offered nothing—no flares of opinion, no plucked harmonics of heat. The sky was a bowl without spoons. Plants murmured of tiredness. Oceans dreamed without waves.

Silence from a star is not neutrality; it is an oath. The Archive knew this. It is why, when a gate of hexagonal light unfolded above the canopy and released a sleep-sweet breath across the forest, the Archive uncurled a frond toward Ivara and pressed a mission into her.

Go ask the Sun why it has become the color of secrets.

The gate yawned wide—the geometry of it precise enough to scratch the mind. Its facets broke the sky into LSD-clean planes, and between them a corridor of compassionless white awaited. Ivara stepped toward it, moss-skin cool, hyphae braids lifting in invisible wind. A flock of glyph-moths accompanied her, their wings inscribed with equations whose solutions tasted faintly of lilac and static. They would serve as translators between unsayable things and things that could be shared.

At the lip of the gate, Ivara turned and looked down at the forest. The canopy waves stilled; the world held its breath. She placed her hands on the light and it became glass beneath her palms. Her ship unfolded from under the threshold like a mushroom blossoming from a fallen trunk: hull pale like a misremembered moon, seams printed with mycelial lace. The vessel’s name surfaced through her touch—Vellichor—a grown craft with a spine of ossified lichen and lungs of spore. A corridor of living chrome extended from its flank, bridging Ivara into its chest, and for a moment she stood between gate and ship and knew simultaneously the patience of a forest and the arrogance of a star.

Then she was swallowed, and Vellichor sailed.

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Moss Under a Quiet Sun | Psychedelic Music Video on Youtube

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Hypnotic techno + psychedelic space tunnel—lights low, volume high.
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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
Prologue — The Sigh that Called Across Orbits

There is a city in the Perseid Flow that does not wait for visitors; it inhales them. Its name in the wind‑tongue is Anhelion, and the maps draw it as a lung‑shaped void, a negative space, because it cannot be built from stone alone. Its avenues open and close like alveoli. Its towers are ribs. Its plazas are diaphragms that rise and fall on a patient schedule that predates calendars.

From the slate edge of orbit, a sleek courier seed drifts down toward the breathing surface, and from it steps a being who is not a traveler in the common sense. Khyre‑of‑the‑Murmurs is a Sibilant, a humanoid from a distant sporeworld where architecture grows and etiquette is exchanged as scents. Khyre’s body is tall and jointed with filaments that flex like reeds; beneath translucent, onyx‑dark skin, pale mycelial veining glows a soft green, glimmering along collarbones and wrists. Four long fingers on each hand end in capillary tips that taste the air. Fan‑shaped gill fronds, thin as paper, arc from Khyre’s neck to the jawline, opening and closing as the atmosphere changes; fractal pupils adjust to blankness and brilliance in an instant. A braided mantle of woven hyphae hangs from broad shoulders, so fine it can slip between atoms when necessary, so textured it records the passing of winds like a book.

Where Khyre goes, a companion follows. Miell is a Scriptmoth, a moth only in silhouette; close, Miell is an angular geometry of silver membranes and jointed light. Each wing is a translucent panel etched with veinwork like circuit diagrams; when Miell moves, the wing‑etchings write glyphs in the air, lingering a moment as luminous afterimages. The Scriptmoth communicates by composing these drifting letters—one word per beat of wing—until the words knot themselves into a meaning the eye can swallow whole.

Khyre and Miell stand at the edge of Anhelion as the city exhales. The exhalation is dry and fragrant with petrichor. The ground underfoot hums. Far overhead, vaults of spore‑light move like auroras. The city’s breath strokes Khyre’s gills and the gills answer—small ripples of pleasure; the air carries a pattern. The pattern repeats, then complicates, then repeats again, an DMT‑clean geometry encoded not in sound but in pressure and drift.

“Eager,” Miell writes in a loop of floating sigils. “Hungry.”

“Hungry for what?” Khyre’s voice is low and unlabored, each word softened by the phenolic resonance of the gill fronds. Khyre tastes the answer before Miell can assemble it: the city is hungry for alignment. Something in its lungs has slipped.

The courier seed folds itself into a brittle pod behind them like an empty husk, and the living gates of Anhelion open, stippled with bioluminescent dots that echo the constellation the city was patterned from. Khyre steps forward, into the thorax of a world.

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The City That Breathes | Trippy Music Video on Youtube

Music video: https://youtu.be/DiR4c3gXYiw

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
Prologue: The Query That Learned to Walk

The Archive was a sea wearing the shape of a cathedral—a vault of liquid geometry flowing through transparent ribs, its floor a calm mirror that remembered everything it had ever reflected. Columns of glacial light rose and softened, bulged and narrowed, solving themselves into arches whose lacework changed with thought. Beneath the vesper hush, gardens of pale mushroom basilicas breathed in slow rhythm, their gills printing letters of dew that slid into the floor and were read without eyes.
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Archive of Liquid Geometry || Music video on youtube

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Peak time techno meets a psychedelic world—watch the gate open in 4K.
Hypnotic acid lines, rolling bass—warehouse energy for the late hours.
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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
I. The Sky Breaks Into Petals

On the world‑city of Orialis, ceilings were a polite fiction. The sky drifted like oil on water: slow, prismatic, a dream front politely delayed. Then, without ceremony, the first drop fell—a prism bead that took a century to reach the ground and somehow struck within a heartbeat. It nested in a cup of lichen on the parapet of the Sporespire, and everything remembered how to bloom.

They called it the Lysergide Rain. It came seldom, and when it did, it revised reality. Buildings sighed and decided on better shapes. Streets discovered shortcuts they’d been shy about proposing. Even the light learned new ways to turn corners. Across roofs and terraces, the citizens of Orialis lifted their faces—none of them human, none of them ordinary. They were mycelium‑born with crowns of pale gills, river‑djinn poured into glassy bodies, chrysalis‑knights whose armor molted into sculptures at dusk. And walking among them, as different from them as a question mark is from a meadow, strode Vesryn, a guide chosen by the Lattice.

Vesryn was humanoid the way a constellation is a kind of animal—recognizable, deliberate, never actually seen the same way twice. Filaments threaded their skin like silver roots, and where a heart would be, a slow heliograph pulsed behind their ribs, blinking messages nobody else could read. Their eyes were rings of petrified wood; peer long enough, you could count the seasons they had survived. When the Lysergide Rain started, Vesryn’s inner heliograph flashed a sentence that translated to: It is time to find the place that forgot it was a door.

They drew their Anamnesis Dial from a pouch woven of dried veils of mushroom. The disk looked like a coin sculpted by a fever dream—its markings never steady, its edge always a bit unsure where, precisely, to be. The Dial warmed, and the Lattice sang—soundless, exigent, intimate. Vesryn felt the road think itself into existence beneath their feet.

Orialis responded like a creature being scratched in exactly the right spot. A boulevard unrolled, not paving itself so much as claiming it had always been there. Along its borders, chroma‑moths woke and opened paneled wings that glowed like stained glass rinsed with LSD light: delicate, vectorial, laughing. They took to the air in a rumor of color.

Vesryn set a palm to the Sporespire’s stone and bowed. “I will return. Or I will succeed. Both feel like the same thing.” The spire’s mycelial ribs answered by trembling, a resonance like a conch’s heart.

They walked into rain that edited the world as it fell.

II. The Guide and the Thought‑Road

The road kept remaking itself. It hummed when Vesryn walked, quiet when they paused, impatient when they looked away. It led past mushroom groves with gills that glimmered like cities seen from space; under each cap, spore‑constellations drifted in drifts that spelled diagrams of elsewhere.

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Lysergide Rain Over Orialis | Music video on Youtube

Music video : https://youtu.be/WlbzZt-tML8

Hypnotic melodic techno with deep, driving grooves—immerse in a 4K trip.
Peak‑time energy meets euphoric synths—melodic techno for midnight minds.
Progressive, hypnotic, euphoric—melodic techno in ultra‑real 4K.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
When the spores fell like slow, glowing snow, Velith felt the ground inhale.

The breath came up through her soles, through the filament webs in her ankles and the hollow bones of her calves, like warm wind traveling a flute. She stood in a valley of caps—towering mushrooms with gills as wide as amphitheaters—and listened to the soil trying to remember a song it had not yet learned how to sing. The caps glinted with dew as precise as scales on a dragon’s eyelid; the stems were as pale as the inside of moonstone. Beyond the valley, dunes rose and fell in curves so clean they looked calculated, each ripple etched by winds that loved geometry. The locals called those curves the DMT dunes, because the sand grains stored Dimensional Memory Threads; if you pressed your ear to them, you could hear directions whispering to themselves.

Velith was not born of flesh, not in the way moss-lions or cloud-whales were. She was a Lumenari, woven of hyphal glass and cooled lightning. Her skin was translucent, shot through with capillaries of light; when she moved, the glow braided and unbraided in quiet patterns. Four arms—two slender, two strong—hung from her shoulders; each wrist wore a fan of cilia that drank the world and tasted it for path. Her face was all facets, a collage of panes like carved LSD glass—Laminated Spectral Dreamglass—grown in the fungus forges under frost. Where the rest of her kind charted constellations in the sky, Velith charted constellations on the ground. She was a pathwright.

And she had come to the valley for a rumor.

Somewhere in these lands, it was said, there existed a place where paths were not inert; where they could shrug off the obedience of stones and learn to walk, to choose, to wander. Old myths named it the Ambulatory, or the Gaitseed Garden, or more simply: Where Paths Learn to Walk. The maps grown by the Conclave had no coordinates for it. That struck Velith as perfect. A place about walking should resist being found by standing still and pointing.

She waited for night to finish the business of opening itself. The caps exhaled phosphorescence; in their breath, Velith saw languages. Not words, exactly—more like tendencies. A curve in the air that suggested a corridor. A fold in the dark implying a door. She stepped forward, and the valley stepped aside.

The Cobalt Threshold

The corridor did not tunnel through earth. It grew from it: a hallway of hyphae the color of twilight embers, arched and ribbed, slick with dew that smelled of mint and thunder. As Velith entered, the walls altered themselves to her stride. Threads tugged loose and braided again to match the way her ankles flicked; ridges unfurled to catch her footfalls and set them gently down. The corridor was a listener.

Glyphs awakened along the arch, lighting one by one as if noticing her. They were not letters. They were senses written down—the taste of iron on a split lip, the soft weight of pollen on a tongue, the relief of stepping from heat into shade. 

Continues on the website.


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Where Paths Learn to Walk || Psy music video on Youtube

Music video : https://youtu.be/OcXDg9glV04

Peak‑time techno with rolling bass and a trance‑kissed lift.
Hypnotic lines, heavy kick—deep warehouse pressure.
Dark to euphoric in one ascent—driving melodic techno.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
The night forest wore the moon like a needle. Pale light stitched from branch to branch, fastening leaf to leaf, turning dew into a lace of cold fire. Beneath that careful seamwork stood a traveler who was not born but assembled—woven out of comet silk, lark‑black shadow, and the quiet intelligence of mycelium. The traveler’s name was Vaelith, though names here were less like labels and more like roots: buried, drinking deep, feeding leaves farther away than anyone could see.

Vaelith’s eyes were slow spirals of silver, rotating once for yes, twice for no, and three times when questions were too complex for a single answer. A braid of pale moss lay across their shoulder; it pulsed softly, an extra heart given by the understory. From the traveler’s waist hung an oval shard of fused stardust—meteor glass—which warmed whenever a path wanted to be found.

That night the glass began to thrum like a low tide in the bones. The shard lifted, not by string or charm but by fondness, and spread a hairline beam across the leaf litter. The light was thin and precise, like a thread the moon had misplaced and now asked Vaelith to return.

They stepped forward. The mossy braid stirred, tasting the air, and the forest answered by re‑arranging itself with hospitality: roots angled to make steps; mushrooms turned their luminous caps to guide; ferns bowed in a rustle that meant we’ve been expecting you. Distant trunks clicked together the way stones do after speech, and the meteor glass kept humming.

As Vaelith walked, soft lanterns rose—small colonies of caps with gills that glowed a psilocybin blue, then shifted into LSD‑bright filaments that crossed the trail like sutures in living skin. The threads did not tie anything down; they held it in a promise. Overhead, branches met in arcs that had never seen architecture and yet produced it, a natural vault where owls wore masks of DMT‑geometry, feather‑tips repeating the same perfect triangle, smaller and smaller, until the pattern fell inward like a whisper.

A figure waited at the mouth of the first clearing: humanoid in the way a tree is humanoid only when the wind persuades it. Limbs were slender cambium, veneer polished by moonlight. Eyes: two slow pools of resin. Antlers: not antlers, but growing scrolls of polished bark carved by termites into filigree. It bowed with the patience of old rainfall.

“Loom‑kin,” Vaelith said, their voice a weave of low breath and the click of beetle shells. The resin eyes brightened.

“I am Soresyn of the Canopy, tender to the seam that holds this world together,” the being said. “The moon has placed thread in your keeping. Something is unraveling beyond my reach.”

The meteor glass hummed harder. Vaelith lifted it, and inside the shard swam a map that wasn’t a map—not inked lines but living filaments drifting as if underwater. They nudged one, and it laid itself along a path only the forest could see.

“Speak of the unraveling,” Vaelith said.

Continues on the website.


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Threaded by Moon and Moss // Music Video @ YouTube

Psy music video : https://youtu.be/4FiV5PqiR84

Hypnotic melodic techno with trippy sci‑fi worlds—headphones on.
123 BPM deep melodic techno—cosmic warehouse energy, hypnotic groove.
Hypnotic techno + cinematic visuals: step through the mycelial gate.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
By the time the firmament loosened, the sky poured in threads rather than rain. Each filament was a liquid line of star‑light, silver at its core and haloed by shifting colors, a river falling upward as much as down. The elders called it Liquid Star Dawn, a rare hour when the night remembered its own birth and melted into rivers that ran between the worlds. It happened once in an age, and it unstitched distance. Roads grew out of it like veins. Gateways remembered how to breathe.

On the edge of a bioluminescent vale, where luminous mushrooms rose like spires and bells, a figure waited who was not made of simple flesh. Vaelith was of the Luminari Myce, a humanoid people whose skin was a tapestry of living threads. Soft blue light drifted beneath her filaments the way pulse drifts beneath translucent wings. In the dark, she looked like a map of constellations walking upright. Along her skull grew a crown of pale, antler‑like hyphae; each antler sprouted tiny lantern caps whose gills breathed faint, cold fire. Where others slept, Vaelith listened—to soils, to stones, to the small sighs the world makes when it changes its mind.

Liquid Star Dawn had been whispered across the roots for weeks before the sky finally unlatched. The Dream‑Mirror Tides—a bright, crystalline wind that turned reflections into gates—were said to follow the star‑rivers and shape them into bridges. Only myth had returned from those bridges, myth and the occasional traveler who came back with a new shadow, or none at all. Vaelith had been chosen to follow the first, brightest stream to its fount and bring back a draught for the sleeping Crown Titan far below the mycelial cathedrals. The Titan was the island’s dreamer; without its dreaming, forests would forget their own names and wind would forget to be kind.

Vaelith wore a mantle of night‑ferns and a belt woven of moon‑vine. On her palms, her filaments unfurled into soft cilia, quick to taste the air for changes. Slung over one shoulder was a lattice instrument called a chronophore, grown from the ribs of ancient shelf‑mushrooms; it did not measure time, but angles of possibility, the way a compass measures north. The chronophore rattled gently as the first star‑threads pooled into a shallow, shining river across the mushroom clearing.

A silhouette lifted from the far side of the grove, taller than any stag, more delicate than any deer. Its antlers were a choir of intricate loops; its face was a mask of obsidian facets reflecting a horizon no one could presently see.

“Treadlight,” Vaelith greeted, dipping her head.

The horned being bowed, and its many eyes blinked in slow sequence, like a constellation shuttering. Treadlight was an Aether Cervid, a creature of the Dream‑Mirror Tides, summoned by the promise of Liquid Star Dawn. Its hooves did not touch earth; they visited it.

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Liquid Star Dawn ][ Trippy Video on YouTube

Music video : https://youtu.be/j0MPhq5wskg

Hypnotic techno for peak‑time—get lost in a fantasy rave through an amber gate.
Dark melodic techno + warehouse energy; a mythic trip in Ultra 3D.
Driving 125 BPM techno—enter the prism forest and don’t look back.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
I. The Basin That Breathes

The basin had no sky in the ordinary sense. It wore an amber crown that dimmed and brightened like a thought, and its dunes were made of glass-fine dust that held the footprints of yesterday’s wind. Beneath that crust lay pipework built by fungi older than regret—hyphae gears, mycelial bellows, and a long engine whose heart ticked in a ribcage of basalt. The basin did not shake when it woke; it inhaled, and the dunes dipped in a slow, respectful bow.

Aralune walked the rim, and if you must call Aralune a person, do it gently. Aralune’s skin was interleaved glass and moss—translucent planes crossed by dim rivers of biolum. The face was a moon cut from green stone; the hair, not hair at all, but braided hyphae threads that whispered the weather. Around the throat hung a single coin-moth—alive but patient—fastened with a loop of frost-wire like a quiet promise.

Aralune had come because the basin’s spores were speaking again. Every thousand breaths, the plain told a story in geometry—spore-script rising in the air, making corridors where there were none, doors where there had never been walls. And tonight was a rarer hour, one spoken of in fossil tongues and recorded as a rumor under the shell of a mirror tortoise: the Turning, when light itself could change its mind.

They were not alone. On the near slope, a phalanx of mirror tortoises began their climb. Their shells were domes of tempered reflection, plated like old armor and banded with narrow rings that contained the history of distances. From their mouths drifted tiny chimes: not sound, exactly, but pressure adjusting to the telling of a name.

At the crest, a cluster of eel-shaped entities surfaced from the dunes in spirals. They were not wet, yet they gleamed; their bodies were tubes of clear crystal, and in their hollow centers flowed silver smoke that made numbers by accident. They carried nothing and could carry anything, if asked the right way.

Farther in, towering above a meadow of cap-lamps, stood the Oracle of Spores—a cathedral mushroom with gills like bookshelves and a stem carved by wind into the shape of a patient bell. The Oracle did not move. Ridges of biolum rose and fell, spelling interviews with silence.

Aralune placed one hand on the dust and felt the engine’s intake. A long breath. The crown brightened; the rim shadows tightened. It had begun.

II. The Procession of Things That Never Learned to Be People

The basin thrummed; the eel-choir threaded themselves into braided cables, their glassy bodies weaving an aerial towline from ridge to ridge. The coin-moth on Aralune’s neck unfurled and lifted—a silver disc with a body no thicker than a sigh. In flight it wrote faint glyphs that fell apart the moment you understood them, the way dreams do when you open a door.

Continues on the website.


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When Light Decides to Turn - Trippy Music Video @ YouTube

Music video : https://youtu.be/liDo2on3w4Y

Hypnotic, peak‑time drive—let the fold pull the horizon closer.
Warehouse tension, melodic release. Ride the hypnotic current.
A deep techno portal: steady pulse, cinematic lift, zero fluff.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
Folds in the Horizon

I. The Pleat That Begins the World
The horizon in the country of Lysara was not a line. It was a garment: pleated, hemmed, basted with light. On dawnless nights—when the sky refused to choose a color—the folds breathed like the chest of some sleeping titan. Valleys rose where a crease deepened; seas settled where a tuck relaxed. It was the work of the Foldweavers to keep those seams from unspooling.

Nerith was a Foldweaver by birth and a Cartogram by vow. No one in Lysara was simply one thing. Nerith’s body was a lattice of spore-silk and glassy tendon, translucent enough that starlight could write notes along the bones. A corona of minute fungi circled their head like a slow storm, gills opening and closing with thoughts. When they spoke, the words arrived as soft contrails of light that took a few heartbeats to evaporate.

They lived within a city that looked like a polished conch and sounded like footprints on snow. Streets curved and returned to themselves; stairs curled inward like a spiral galaxy. In every house, a brass aperture faced the horizon so residents could watch the world being folded, refolded, hemmed again.

On the night the trouble began, every aperture turned opaque at once. The garment of the world shivered. A pleat near the western reach—called the Farthest Pleat—slackened. Wind forgot which way to go. Birds of glass, which only flew along the strain of a seam, dropped and drifted like ash.

Nerith’s fungi-storm thrummed with tiny vowels. The Mycelial Conclave kindled a beam to the high vault, summoning the Order. Inside the summoning light, glyphs poured like silver rain—edicts, coordinates, a single imperative: Refasten the Farthest Pleat; carry the bone-chime that rings by not ringing.

Nerith cupped the unchime, a loop of fossilized marrow that kept silence so deep it seemed to pull echoes toward it and dissolve them. It was said that if the unchime were ever struck, it would end the practice of distance. Valleys would be elbows; skies would be knees. No one had ever been that lonely or that brave.

Beyond the city, the first path waited: a plain of lampcaps, mushrooms tall as obelisks, their caps lacquered with frost-fire. Each lampcap was a custodian of one word. If you strung their words in order, you could read your fortune and mislay your fear.

Nerith set out.

II. Lampcaps and the Grammar of Roads
The lampcaps woke as Nerith approached—first a pulse like a heart, then a voice like a bell under lakewater. Mycelial whiskers teased the air and inscribed rings around Nerith’s ankles. The road revealed itself in syllables.

“Step,” murmured the first lampcap.
“Lightly,” said the second.
“Carry,” the third.
“Nothing,” the fourth.
“On,” breathed the fifth, “your name.”

Nerith’s fungi-crown shivered agreement. On nights of Lumen Spiral Drift—the elders abbreviated it as L.S.D.—the air braided itself into ribbons of tactile light.

Continues on the website.


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Folds in the Horizon

Music video @ YouTube : https://youtu.be/x4Zw3ZyGWN8

Underground glide: hypnotic bass, mythic textures, late‑night focus.
Psychedelic grit, lucid groove—this is your night drive ritual.
Deep, evolving, peak‑ready. Follow the thread across the dunes.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
I. The Pleat That Begins the World
The horizon in the country of Lysara was not a line. It was a garment: pleated, hemmed, basted with light. On dawnless nights—when the sky refused to choose a color—the folds breathed like the chest of some sleeping titan. Valleys rose where a crease deepened; seas settled where a tuck relaxed. It was the work of the Foldweavers to keep those seams from unspooling.

Nerith was a Foldweaver by birth and a Cartogram by vow. No one in Lysara was simply one thing. Nerith’s body was a lattice of spore-silk and glassy tendon, translucent enough that starlight could write notes along the bones. A corona of minute fungi circled their head like a slow storm, gills opening and closing with thoughts. When they spoke, the words arrived as soft contrails of light that took a few heartbeats to evaporate.

They lived within a city that looked like a polished conch and sounded like footprints on snow. Streets curved and returned to themselves; stairs curled inward like a spiral galaxy. In every house, a brass aperture faced the horizon so residents could watch the world being folded, refolded, hemmed again.

On the night the trouble began, every aperture turned opaque at once. The garment of the world shivered. A pleat near the western reach—called the Farthest Pleat—slackened. Wind forgot which way to go. Birds of glass, which only flew along the strain of a seam, dropped and drifted like ash.

Nerith’s fungi-storm thrummed with tiny vowels. The Mycelial Conclave kindled a beam to the high vault, summoning the Order. Inside the summoning light, glyphs poured like silver rain—edicts, coordinates, a single imperative: Refasten the Farthest Pleat; carry the bone-chime that rings by not ringing.

Nerith cupped the unchime, a loop of fossilized marrow that kept silence so deep it seemed to pull echoes toward it and dissolve them. It was said that if the unchime were ever struck, it would end the practice of distance. Valleys would be elbows; skies would be knees. No one had ever been that lonely or that brave.

Beyond the city, the first path waited: a plain of lampcaps, mushrooms tall as obelisks, their caps lacquered with frost-fire. Each lampcap was a custodian of one word. If you strung their words in order, you could read your fortune and mislay your fear.

Nerith set out.

II. Lampcaps and the Grammar of Roads
The lampcaps woke as Nerith approached—first a pulse like a heart, then a voice like a bell under lakewater. Mycelial whiskers teased the air and inscribed rings around Nerith’s ankles. The road revealed itself in syllables.

Continues on the website.


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Bell of Unspoken Distances | Trippy Music Video on YouTube

Hard, peak‑time techno meets a sci‑fi visual trip—zero talk, full immersion.
Warehouse pressure, hypnotic bass, relentless drive—lock in and ride.
Acid sparks + rolling low end = peak‑time catharsis in 4K.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
Prologue: The Slow Name

Aethyra was not a place so much as a mood the universe remembered. From a distance it looked like a pearl bruised by starlight, but inside its forests the air moved with a will. Towers of luminous fungi held up the sky; rivers traveled as if they had thoughts about destinations; and mountains slept like old guardians who preferred listening to speech.

Legends said Aethyra had a Slow Name, spoken only by the world itself. The Slow Name was not a word, but a pacing. Those who tried to hurry it heard nothing. Those who stopped entirely also heard nothing. To hear it, a traveler had to move with the patience of growing things.

Orasha came to learn that pacing.

Orasha was Mirrorkin—tall and jointed like a reed, skin lacquered black as cooled obsidian, veined with slow‑pulsing lines of green. No one could mistake a Mirrorkin for a person of the common constellations; their faces showed no mouth, only a pane of reflective bone where gazes went in and did not return the same. Orasha’s gaze was kind. Behind that pane lived a voice that shaped thoughts into touch. A mantle of brittle light hung from their shoulders, and in the cradle of that mantle lay an hourseed: a small, living clock that grew leaves whenever Orasha kept still long enough for a single thought to flower.

On the third eclipse of the cerulean moon, Orasha stepped beneath the Violet Canopy and listened.

The world listened back.

I. The Gate of Amber Moss

The corridor between the first giants of the forest smelled like rain remembered. Caps the size of market domes leaned inward, each rim stained with amber moss that glowed as if lit from roots. Every step Orasha took awakened a chain of bioluminescent filaments, a path sketched in honeyed light that unraveled just enough to suggest a destination without confessing it.

The hourseed warmed. A leaf unfolded. Orasha paused and let it grow.

From the underside of a broad cap, a figure descended: a Kyr-monk, woven entirely of hyphae. It had four arms and no eyes, but its posture radiated welcome. The Kyr moved without touching the ground, buoyed on a cushion of spores.

You have the patience to let your clock grow leaves, the Kyr said without sound. The words arrived like damp wind. Then you may ask a question of the Gate, if you are prepared to wait for its answer.

“I am,” Orasha answered, by letting their mantle shift in a small bow.

The Gate did not look like a door. It was a section of moss that refused to show what lay beneath. Orasha knelt and placed both hands lightly upon it. The moss agreed to notice.

The world did nothing. Minutes went. A beetle with a glass shell tried and failed to understand Orasha’s reflection. The Kyr folded two of its arms, perhaps in prayer, perhaps in rest.

At last the moss sighed, and a seam the width of a breath unzipped. Behind it, darkness carried the smell of stone that remembered the sea.

You may pass, the Kyr conveyed. Remember: Aethyra answers slowly. Ask everything in the same rhythm you’d use to grow a garden.

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The Patience of Aethyra || Trippy Vid on YouTube

Music Video | https://youtu.be/ZpyE0mGNGH0

Hypnotic techno meets cosmic rave—lose yourself in the corridor.
Peak‑time pulse, psychedelic visuals—ride the dimensional transit.
Hard‑edged, hypnotic techno with a sci‑fi twist—watch in 4K.

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https://music.apple.com/us/artist/grass-patch-bum/1596136340
(❁´◡`❁)
https://soundcloud.com/grasspatchbum
☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆


The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
Prologue: The Meridian that Dreamed in Mycelium

The vessel is alive and older than most mountains. It calls itself Gleamroot, though names are merely the skins it sheds between journeys. Its hull is bark-metal and pearl-chitin, laced with veins that glow when it thinks. Beneath those veins run threads like silvered mycelium, branching and branching until they braid into a mind. The mind is quiet now, listening to the dark that lies between constellations.

At Gleamroot’s heart stands Vael, a tall, luminous figure whose silhouette suggests a humanoid ancestry, though no one could mistake Vael for anything born on a common world. Their skin is a soft, bioluminescent slate that shows faint rings like the cross-section of a tree. From their crown rise flexible filaments—sensory hyphae—that unfurl and curl according to mood. When Vael concentrates, the filaments lift and spread like soft antlers, tasting the field-lines of reality. When they rest, the filaments drape across their shoulders like a scarf woven from moonlight.

Vael is a Meridian Cartographer of the Lumenroot Veldt, a lineage that maps not merely places but the coherences between them. They do not draw rivers and roads. They map habits of existence—the ways a moment leans toward another, the corridors of probability that living minds unwittingly pave. Their discipline is ancient and surgical. They walk the L‑S‑D lattice—Luminal‑Spiral Diagrams—which are not scripts but living geometries that awaken when looked upon with a steady attention.

Ahead of Gleamroot, suspending the black like a crown of frost, floats the Fane of Meridian: a ring vast enough to swallow oceans, woven from calcified moonbeams and threads of time. It is not a machine and not a temple; it is both and neither. Those who approach respectfully call it the Arc-Fane. Those who approach hungrily do not live to coin a name.

Vael comes respectfully. They do not kneel. They reach toward the console where luminous glyphs—L‑S‑D diagrams—blossom into nested spirals and dendrites upon contact. The diagrams unfold according to the pressure and warmth of Vael’s palm, in a duet of agency and welcome. Gleamroot flexes its roots into the thin awareness that girds the Fane, and everything shivers as if the void itself has inhaled.

Beyond the ring, the Dimensional Meridian waits: a dendritic corridor that connects not locations but realities—threaded hollows in the bark of the multiverse. To enter it is to admit that distance is gossip. To transit it is to become a rumor yourself, repeated until you arrive.

Vael closes their eyes. The hyphae rise. On the inner surface of their eyelids, a delicate storm of glyphs begins to turn.

I. Lanterns of the Threshold

The first sign is subtle: the dark grows grain, as if seeded with invisible pollen. Then the pollen kindles. Out of the vacuum drift shapes like mushroom lanterns, each no larger than Vael’s fist, each a perfect spire topped by a bell. 

Continues on the website.


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Merch Shop : https://grass-patch-bum-shop.fourthwall.com
o(*^＠^*)o
https://open.spotify.com/artist/3q0KcTUD3hmRdi1SUWd6VL
https://grasspatchbum.bandcamp.com/
https://grasspatchbum.com/
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Support the tunes:
https://paypal.me/grasspatchbum

#techno #hardtechno #peaktime #hypnotictechno #industrialtechno #acidtechno #warehouse #rave #visualizer #psychedelicvisuals

Dimensional Meridian Transit | Trippy Video ! YouTube

Music Video : https://youtu.be/QN8Nf0B7rbw

Peak‑time hard techno, warehouse power, trippy sci‑fi worlds—dive in now.
Dark rolling kicks + acid surges + hypnotic visuals = peak‑time release.
Hardgroove momentum, rumble bass, cinematic trip through Sporespace.

Stream / download / buy ➜
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https://music.apple.com/us/artist/grass-patch-bum/1596136340
(❁´◡`❁)
https://soundcloud.com/grasspatchbum
☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆


The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
I — The Call Beneath Luminous Soil

Sporespace began as a tingle in the roots of the world.

On the moon of Vyr, where continents are braided with glassy mycelium, the ground whispered to a pilgrim named Khyra of the Filament Choir. Khyra was not born but grown—humanoid in outline, her body a cathedral of translucent quartz and opaline threads. Beneath her skin, hyphae shimmered like constellations, moving with the steady breath of an organism that remembered thunderstorms, extinctions, and the taste of meteor dust. Her eyes held crescents of violet seeded with starmotes; her hair was a drift of fine filaments carrying the faint scent of anise and rain.

The call rose through the soil—an electrical murmur, subtle as a secret. Pale caps opened around her ankles and released a micro‑fog of silver spores that wrote tiny glyphs in the air, then erased them, as if shy of being understood.

Khyra knelt and pressed her palms to the hum of the ground. She felt networks far below, cycling through patterns older than any spoken word. The message was simple and absolute.

Come. The Crown turns. The Path blooms.

When Khyra stood, her joints chimed softly, crystalline plates settling into travel geometry. From her shoulders unfurled a pair of living membranes—lamellae latticed like wings, grown not for flight but for catching the tides between worlds. She faced the horizon, where the sky wore a faint lysergic sheen, colors sliding through each other like oil on a dark sea.

She was not alone. A guardian drifted from between the bulb‑trees: Tholos, a spore‑sphinx whose body was a hovering cap the size of a small shrine. His face grew on the underside of the cap, a geometrical mask of shifting polygons and amber eyes without pupils. Hyphal tassels trailed beneath him like whiskers of pale lightning. When he spoke, it sounded like velvet being combed in the wrong direction.

“Pilgrim,” Tholos murmured, “the Path is open. To walk it is to be rewritten.”

“To refuse it,” Khyra said, “is to go blind on a day of brightest sun.”

Tholos’ amber eyes narrowed into gentle scythes. “Then we begin.”

The world exhaled. The ground unrolled a ribbon of phosphorescent moss, and on it pulsed the first step of the Sporespace Pilgrimage.

II — The Oratory of Basidia

The path led to Basidia, a monastery never built so much as persuaded to appear. Its domes were stacked caps, porcelain white and freckled with burnt gold; its corridors were gills turned into hallways, banded with iridescent ridges. Caretakers greeted Khyra at the gate—the Monachae, dignified beings whose bodies resembled tall spindles woven from threads of milk‑glass, each bearing a halo of spores like a snowfall forever suspended.

Mother Sephrae, eldest among them, came forward with motions as measured as tides. Beneath her translucent chest lay a rosary of quiescent seeds, each seed a record of a friend she had ever lost and ever found again.

“Child of the Choir,” Sephrae intoned, “your pulse arrives with the turning Crown. Do you carry the question?”

Continues on the website.


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Merch Shop : https://grass-patch-bum-shop.fourthwall.com
o(*^＠^*)o
https://open.spotify.com/artist/3q0KcTUD3hmRdi1SUWd6VL
https://grasspatchbum.bandcamp.com/
https://grasspatchbum.com/
ㄟ(≧◇≦)ㄏ
Support the tunes:
https://paypal.me/grasspatchbum


#techno #trippyvisuals #technomusic #visualizer #undergroundtechno #musicvisualizer #4kvideo #4kvisuals #psychedelicvisuals #peaktimetechno #hypnotictechno #drivingtechno #melodictechno

Sporespace Pilgrimage // Video on YouTube

Music video : https://youtu.be/FlnCfGS7dAA

Hard techno + schranz surge—peak‑time energy and hypnotic groove collide.
Warehouse‑ready: acid flashes, industrial grit, rolling bass, 4AM tension.
Cinematic rave trip—hardgroove swing and laser‑edged kicks all the way.

Stream / download / buy ➜
(●'◡'●)
https://music.apple.com/us/artist/grass-patch-bum/1596136340
(❁´◡`❁)
https://soundcloud.com/grasspatchbum
☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆


The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
I. The Valley of Needles and Nebulae

The valley did not possess a sky so much as it wore one—like a mantle stitched from night and fossilized lightning. There, mountains grew as spirals, unfurling like ammonites that had learned the grammar of distance. Between them unrolled a plain of obsidian grass, each blade the height of a knight’s fingerbone and sharp enough to cut a breeze. Among the grass rose gardens of mushrooms whose caps glowed with psilocybin‑cool luminescence, swelling and shrinking as though the land itself were breathing. The air shimmered with prismatic latticework, the kind of crystalline geometry the old mages called LSD frost: not a substance, but a behavior of space when it remembered how to speak in angles.

From the far lip of the valley, a figure descended—tall, limber, and jointed like a cathedral. A crown of thornlike antlers curved from their brow, clear as frozen starlight. The skin beneath was night poured over basalt, veined with faint mycelial fire. Their eyes were two small nebulae, each laced with silent storms. This was Veyra of the Hollow Constellations, Thornbearer‑designate, though no coronation had yet bound the title to their name.

Veyra’s cloak whispered as it moved, stitched from comet dust and the lensing of gravity. Around Veyra’s ankles flowed a low tide of spores, soft as fog. They did not carry weapons. What lay ahead was not a war but an agreement older than war—older, some said, than the first thought the universe ever had about edge and center.

The valley’s gate was a living thing grown of stone and hyphae. It woke as Veyra approached, its arch unfurling in segments like a thornless jaw. Runes climbed across its face, rearranging themselves as if embarrassed by old spelling mistakes. Beneath the arch the air deepened to a dream. Veyra placed a palm against the gate and felt it taste the lines of their hand: the cool curiosity of limestone, the slow joy of mycelium, the seriousness of granite. The gate found Veyra true. It opened enough for a sun to pass, though only starlight slipped through.

Beyond the gate there was a bridge, but not one that any empire would have built. It spiraled upward—an amber helix woven from fossil light and the memory of insect wings. A hundred lantern moths, their bodies written from pale green fire, whirled around the helix and painted the air with script. Each swoop left a calligraphic ribbon that fluttered for a heartbeat before folding itself into the next ribbon, until the whole sky seemed to write a single, never‑ending word.

Veyra set a foot upon the helix. The bridge understood and answered in geometry. Every step translated weight into letters; every letter bent the helix half a degree toward the heart of an unseen star.

Above the valley’s slow breathing, the firmament gathered into a bowl. The stars were close—so close that a patient hand might stroke their bark. 

Continues on the website.


ಥ_ಥ
Merch Shop : https://grass-patch-bum-shop.fourthwall.com
o(*^＠^*)o
https://open.spotify.com/artist/3q0KcTUD3hmRdi1SUWd6VL
https://grasspatchbum.bandcamp.com/
https://grasspatchbum.com/
ㄟ(≧◇≦)ㄏ
Support the tunes:
https://paypal.me/grasspatchbum

#techno  #hardtechno  #schranz  #hardgroove #acidtechno  #industrialtechno  #peaktimetechno  #neorave  #warehouse  #aimusicvideo

Thornstar Coronation ~ Video on Youtube

a little late night messing around mixing. a track from coss wolf muller and some liquid samples.

Ai Magic (Mix)

a bit of messing around with tracks from drumspyder and that one song that makes your balls drop instantly and grow a 5 pound beard hahaha

@drumspyder

Sword Sailor (Mix)

leda valladares is a legend! thanks to @fertildiscos & @folcore for not forgetting this beauty.

here's a little remix.

Canto De Velorio (GPB Remix)

It's been a while so here's a little mix. Happy Halloween!

Reverse Peripheral (GPB Mix)

i love it how. when i'm playing around with music... there's endless posibilities :)

Pick It Up Put It Down (edit, remix, mix)

Dig the tunes? Check out trippy music videos: https://www.youtube.com/@grasspatchbum

Website or Instagram for booking.

Need change - going into the depths.

Techno, Trance, Psytech, Psytrance, and other liquid psychedelic music is where I'm the happiest but I do love a lot of Latin, Tribal, Trip Hop, Lofi, Chillhop so occasionally I'll release something off-beat.

------ Past-Tense Shenanigans ------

Born in the dust-filled vibes of a ‘90s apartment, Grass Patch Bum started spinning records back when vinyl was king and internet cafes were revolutionary. Armed with a crate of vinyl, Grass Patch Bum dived headfirst into underground raves and sweaty house parties, learning the art of blending beats on turntables and (eventually) the "futuristic" CDJs. But the journey didn't stop there.

After taking a hiatus to dive into the world of FL Studio and dissect the mechanics of production, Grass Patch Bum came back stronger, with a repertoire of original sounds and the technical chops to match. Fast forward, and they've turned dancefloors upside down from Thailand to Vietnam, Bali to the heart of Europe. Now, powered by Ableton Live and a creative arsenal that refuses to stay in one genre, Grass Patch Bum weaves sonic journeys that blend groove, grit, and just a sprinkle of nostalgia for the good ol' days.

Catch him live for a taste of nostalgia, modern beats, Latin grooves, electronic melodies, and a wide range of liquid sounds. Whether it's a tropical beach in Thailand or an underground club in Berlin, Grass Patch Bum brings thems booty movements like no other.

Grass Patch Bum

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