Badly (un)mixed improjam from the SlabLab which is under assembly finally. Close to the forests, short way from de-digitalizing hikes...

Into the forest haze to hide from the AIs eyes

Lyrics:
Sessiz bir çığlık sözler hep bıçak gibi
Kırılmaz bedenim donuk bakışlardayım ben
Gölge değil duvarlar örerim etrafında
Hiçbir sesin nüfuz edemediği dünyamda

Hissetmem acıyı görmem hiç korkuyu ben
Bırakın dursunlar yürür giderim hep ben
Soğuk duvarlar ardında dünyaya meydan okuyan yüzüm
Durur mermer gibi karşında

DUVARLAR

alternate reality city in steampunk style.

city ​​steam

Hiraethog Waltz

Poem in A minor

Cobweb Sonata No.1 - Allegretto Moderato

Cobweb Sonata No.2 - Adagio Andantino

Cobweb Sonata No.3 - Allegretto

Fuga in A minor

Lo, music hath dwelt within mine inmost soul since first I drew breath, a spectre unseen yet ever whispering in mine ear. When but a child of six, mine hands didst find their place upon the ivory keys, and in that instant, the heavens didst open, proclaiming thus: This is thy path—tread forth, and stray not.

Through the years, I didst dally with many an instrument—the clarinet, the tuneful lute, the chorus wherein voices rise as one, the riotous company of minstrels in bands of rock and revelry. Yet ‘twas not in the playing alone that my spirit found its fire, but in the crafting of melody itself—the stitching of notes like a tailor most possessed, shaping sound as a potter doth his clay.

And then, upon a fateful eve in the heady bloom of youth, I gazed upon Eroica, a vision of great Ludwig’s mighty Third. A tempest it didst stir within mine breast, a spark that set my very soul ablaze, and ere the night did wane, my quill had birthed its first true song—Piano Sonatina, 2004. From thence forth was I bound, a servant to the Muse, sworn unto composition as a knight unto his sovereign.

To Coventry’s learned halls I went, where masters wise did lend their art—Bob Ramskill, Marcus Cornell, Chris Hobbs—all scholars most esteemed, whose knowledge I did drink as doth a parched man drink the sweetest wine. Some do whisper that my hand doth echo Ornstein’s tempest, Nancarrow’s cunning, Antheil’s mad delight. If such be true, I welcome it as fortune’s boon.

Shouldst thou wish to hear the labours of my heart, thou needs but seek me out upon yon SoundCloud, where resteth my works—piano of wild fancy, great orchestral airs, a tome of strings where harmony and discord dance as lovers ‘neath the moon. And when I set mine own quill aside, I delve ‘midst the dust of time, where ancient scores lie in slumber, breathing once more the breath of life into those melodies the world hath nigh forgotten.

So tarry not, dear friend—lend thine ear, let music seize thee as the tide doth seize the shore, let it shake thee, stir thee, set thy heart adrift upon its waves. And if joy it bring thee, then know thou hast gladdened one poor composer’s soul.

I bow to thee, and bid thee well.

Fuga in A minor

Jones-Stubbs

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