The feeling of a lonely vampire, trying to enjoy the fleeting warmth of a summer night, He's been alive for centuries, yet this summer feels different. The laughter of mortals, the golden sunsets - It all aches in a way he can't ignore. But the night is still his only home. The neon glow of midnight pools, the whisper of the wind Wrapped in the shroud of night, he'll finally step out to meet himself

Hit del verano

In those moments of life when the heart grows dim, where nothing seems to bring peace again, there—wrapped in shadows—come the waves of terror, fervently crashing upon the shores of the mind. Confusion and darkness thrive, and despair tightens its grip on the chest... There, in silence, the shadows seem unnatural... Yet even in the eternal night’s abyss, in the blackest of depths, a dawn awaits—a light that lets us press onward, to endure another day against the waves of terror.

Olas de terror (Waves of Terror)

RUNNING IN KARNAK

The traveler had entered the temple with the arrogance of a modern explorer—one who believes the wonders of the ancient world exist only to be photographed. Karnak was just another stop on his route, another place to check off his list. But the temple had other plans.

The hallways multiplied before him, each turn deeper than the last, each chamber darker. The columns, carved with the names of pharaohs dead for millennia, seemed to tighten around him, as if the temple itself were breathing, dragging him into its depths. And then—darkness. Absolute. Impenetrable.

Blindly, he moved forward, his fingertips brushing against hieroglyphs that burned at his touch, as if they held some ancient fire. That was when he heard it: a heavy, slow step, dragging across the stone. It wasn’t human. It couldn’t be.

And then—the glow.

A cruel, incandescent gold light flooded the hallway in the distance, casting a grotesque shadow against the walls. It had no shape—only a presence, something moving toward him with the certainty of a god who knows its prey has no escape.

He ran.

He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He fled like a cornered animal, legs burning, heart pounding against his chest like a war drum. But the hallway didn’t end. It stretched, twisted, like a papyrus unrolling into infinity. His vision blurred, the edges of his consciousness dissolving into a golden mist.

Why was he running? He no longer remembered.

Suddenly, the hallway opened into a vast chamber, a forest of columns disappearing into the blackness above. Flickering torches illuminated the space, casting dancing shadows on the carved faces lining the walls. For a moment, he thought he was safe.

Then—a rush of wind.

The flames went out in unison, plunging him into a darkness that lasted only a second before being replaced by a starry sky, as if the temple’s ceiling had vanished to reveal the eternal night.

And there, in the center of the chamber—the shadow of fire.

It had no defined shape—just tongues of gold and crimson writhing in the air, calling to him. Before it, a portal of liquid silver shimmered with a cold, unreal light. Unable to resist, he stepped forward.

His reflection on the surface wasn’t his own. It was a dark silhouette, a version of himself distorted by time or madness. He reached out, and the mirror yielded like disturbed water.

The portal swallowed him.

Infinite vertigo. Voices whispering in a forgotten tongue. And then—

"Wake up."

A sharp jolt. Sunlight striking his eyelids. The roar of an engine.

"The bus is leaving!" said the voice, rough and mundane.

The traveler blinked, disoriented. He was sitting on the ground near the temple entrance, his clothes soaked in cold sweat. As he stood, something slipped from his pocket—a charred scrap of papyrus with a single legible hieroglyph:

"Amun."

As the bus pulled away, he looked out the window. Between the temple’s columns, something golden flickered—like an eye slowly closing.





Aljari fi alkarnak (corriendo por Karnak)

This song is born from the heartbeat of Mother Earth, a journey through the Araucanía jungle in southern Chile: drums, flutes, and Jawharps weave a landscape that evokes the primordial. It is an invitation to remember—we are part of this sacred cycle. From the earth we are born, by her we are nourished, we live, and to her we shall return.

It begins in stillness: dew on the leaves, mist embracing the volcanoes. Slowly, the rhythm rises like sap through the trees or the sun breaking through the branches. The intensity is not violence, but the pure energy of life itself—the same pulse that beats in your chest and in the mountains. These instruments are not just sounds; they are memories carved into every vibration, a call to witness what sustains us.

This music is a bridge—between the fire that binds sky and earth, the wind that sculpts the hills, and the water that mirrors the moon. The movement is not chaos, but a reminder: even as the modern world isolates us behind walls of concrete, we remain part of the great cycle. The earth feeds us; the same sun watches us awaken. Listen. Meditate. You belong

Maxabrahamproyectos

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