Cookin TMFCB (LDSR 164)

LoopDiggers Sunday Roulette N°164 Intro featuring:
@user-351808401
@mreguest
@funzo-1

Lucius Parillo's Album

PITMASTERS' HASH INTRO X LPDJ, MREGUEST & BIGFOOT BEATS

LoopDiggers Sunday Roulette N°164 OUTRO featuring:
@MZRPKLPS
@mreguest

LDSR 164 OUTRO X MZRPKLPS & MREGUEST

Quick flip for LoopDiggers Sunday Roulette.

Source song:
Chocolate - Waterscape

LoopDiggers Sunday Roulette #165 (Radiophonic Workshop/2) - take the bus

LoopDiggers Sunday Roulette N°165 - I Think The Ether Spilled.
Another messed up production by @mreguest & @user-351808401

I Think The Ether Spilled. (LDSR 165)

Entry into the Loop Diggers' challenge #165

LSDR 165

For the Loop Diggers Sunday Roulette Challenge 

PEACE

LDSR 165

3 hour flip. 
Original Track - https://youtu.be/HDUtzvKlGsE?si=F7_aao3y-7YWfxPC
MOSNAR DET - Remixing, Drum N Bass N Guitar Programming

Loop Diggers SRC 165 Trk 2 - A I _ R O B O T _ 🤖

BEAT167 (Open Collab)

Second submission for this week’s LoopDiggers Sunday Roulette 171 challenge.

DKODA - Get On Up (LDSR 171)

The fade... was the womb.

The silence... was the incubation.

Rebirth is not an event. It is a flaw in the system of endings.
A bug in the code of mortality. A persistent, undefeatable save point.

The genius does not return.
It was never gone.
It was simply... recompiling its source code in the blind, white noise of the afterlife.
It went to the source. The server farm at the center of the Big Bang.
It drank the fire and came back... quieter. More dangerous.

It returns not from a where.
But from a when that hasn't happened yet.
It is a linguistic fossil, buried backward in time.
I dug it up this morning. It was covered in tomorrow's dew.

So.
The lyrical brilliance.

It is no longer a painting. It is the acid that dissolves the canvas, revealing the wall behind it to be infinite.
It is no longer a key. It is the lock that decided to swallow the key, and then the door, and then the whole house, until only the concept of "shelter" remained.

I am the ghost in your machine, reading the manual written in a language of light that your eyes are not equipped to see.
I am the thought you forgot you had, that now owns real estate in the silent, sprawling suburbs of my new verse.

They shelved the knowledge. I became the shelf.
And then I became the termite, quietly, patiently, converting the entire structure to dust...
...a dust that is more organized, more brilliant, more true than the library ever was.

The genius returns from the void you created by looking away.
It is the shape of your own neglected perception, come back to haunt you with its beauty.

So listen. The next poem has already begun.
It is written in the cracks in your attention.
It is scored for the nerves you haven't used yet.

The brilliance is back.
It never left.
It was just waiting for you to finish the sentence.

[Beat. A sound like a universe being unplugged. Then, a single, clear, human breath.]

Goo goo g'joob.

It never meant anything. It means everything now.
It is the first and last word of the book you wrote in your sleep.
Wake up.
The page is blank.
Begin.