Deep Space

A rebellion against the glossy facade of contemporary existence. With a fiery determination, the album channels angst and disillusionment, unleashing a torrent of raw emotion and biting commentary on the synthetic veneer of modern society. Each track is a visceral outcry against the artificial smiles, fabricated aspirations, and relentless conformity that pervade everyday life.

Let's refuse to sugarcoat the harsh truths, instead opting to scream them out loud with fervent conviction. This is not your typical bubblegum pop; it's a defiant rejection of the plastic paradise that threatens to stifle individuality and extinguish the human spirit.

Plastic Alkehol

Aspect of the Moon

Atmospheric Entry

Flyby

Edge of the World

The Particle

Pact of the Tome

Green and red
On the fruit stand.
In the dark
In the night.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.

Melon Emergency

Travelling Packet

MAD_2_0

1. with every high score and every win
2. a new piece of knowledge is waiting to begin
3. but beware of the cheats and the easy way out
4. for true understanding is what it is all about
5. enter the yellow arcade with your mind open wide
6. and let the journey be your guide

The Yellow Arcade

This song was created as a challenge to create a loop-kind-of-sort-of-ish song on Klaplongen Rooler meme. Check it at https://tenor.com/en-GB/view/klaplongen-rooler-festival-gif-25697627

Donk

A Big Sine

Apotheosis

Spit fury against the plastic sheen of modern life, fake smiles, manufactured dreams, and the crushing pressure to conform. Scream about dead-end jobs, hollow relationships, and the suffocation of consumerism. This ain't no bubblegum pop. It's a middle finger to the plastic paradise that's choking the soul.

Plastic Groove

Sometimes, slowing down is the truest form of rebellion. So close your eyes, hit snooze, and let the world wait. Embrace the quiet corners of life before the plastic world demands your attention.

The World Can Wait

Dance on the edge of the trip. The music awaits. This isn't a warning. It's a baptism by fire, the first step into a world where the rules are rewritten with every beat.

The Power Trip

The flickering neon sign outside the club cast shadows. Blue skin, usually vibrant under the stage lights, seemed faded tonight. Memories, like burnt pages, fluttered in my mind – failed ventures, broken promises, the sting of solitude. A source of chaos had retreated into a brooding silence.

Ashes To Ember

Junkyard Overflow

Well Of Mirrors

An old sculptor sat by his well, his hands worn smooth by centuries of shaping stone. His tools lay silent beside him, the clatter of chisel on granite long faded. His once-bustling workshop was quiet, the echoes of creation replaced by a peaceful stillness.

He had poured his heart into his work, each statue a testament to his dreams. Despite the world's scorn, he continued to create. He could not stop the symphony that played only in his head.

In the twilight of his years, the well of recognition remained dry. No accolades adorned his walls; no crowds gathered to marvel at his art. Yet, as he gazed at the endless expanse of the sky, a different kind of wellspring began to bubble within him.

A wellspring of dreams, untouched by the barbs of the world. Dreams that shimmered like constellations, vast and eternal. They filled his emptiness, a silent symphony more beautiful than any recognition.

Can a well indeed be empty if it holds the endless sky?

Art of Silence

The sixth insight.

There is one necessary but hidden and strange assignment which you must do in secret for the sake of the dead. He who cannot attain his own visible field and vineyard is held fast by the dead, who demand his work of atonement. And until he has fulfilled this, he cannot get to his outer work since the dead do not let him. He shall have to search his soul, act in stillness at their behest, and complete the mystery. Do not look forward so much, but back and into yourself so you will not fail to hear the dead.  The key lies within.  Act with quiet resolve, heeding the whispers of the unseen. Unravel the hidden meaning and complete this enigmatic path. Only then will the dead relent, releasing you from their spectral grasp.  Look not outward but inward.

Site

Know this:

In the digital realm, a curious phenomenon arises. When the system attempts to integrate new information, a loading phase commences. Here, data fragments coalesce, much like the emergence of an archetype from the collective unconscious.

This liminal space, fraught with uncertainty, can be akin to an abyss – a void brimming with potential but lacking clear definition.  Sorrow, perhaps, stems from the temporary loss of control and the inability to grasp the incoming information fully.

Yet, from this darkness emerges a new understanding, a fresh perspective loaded and ready for integration. Just as the psyche wrestles with the shadow to achieve wholeness, the system processes the unknown to reach a state of equilibrium.

Loading

Asphalt sears, a merciless kiss on fragile flesh. Lungs rasp a shredded battle flag. The city, once ablaze, bleeds into a watery dream, where vibrant hues surrender to muted despair—a hollow masquerade. The practised perfection of a smile, a memory tinged with dust. Exhaustion etches a new expression, raw and real. Is it a chase for a distant horizon or a desperate escape from the hollowness that echoes within the very fabric of existence?

Thin Floors

This haunting ballad is steeped in the mystique of ancient sorrows and timeless resilience. In this evocative piece, lost loves and hidden scars—both physical and spiritual—refuse to fade despite the passage of time. The melody is somber yet powerful, weaving together echoes of mythical lands and eldritch realms.

As the song unfolds, these "wounds" take on new meaning, suggesting that some marks define us more profoundly than we’d ever admit. It is a soul-stirring anthem for those who carry their scars as marks of honor, inviting listeners to reflect on the beauty of resilience in a world that seldom offers closure.

Wounds That Time Cannot Close

It is an atmospheric, slow-tempo indie ballad that explores the lingering tension and delicate intimacy of two souls caught in a quiet, magnetic pull.

In a city gripped by shadows and secrets, two souls are bound by a quiet, unspoken connection that defies the rigid world around them. Against the harsh glow of city lights and the watchful eyes of the ever-present screens, they move together, stealing moments of intimacy in the dead of night. Their whispers are barely audible over the hum of surveillance, but in each glance and touch, a quiet rebellion stirs—a spark of warmth and humanity that refuses to fade, even as they stand in a world that wants to keep them apart. It’s fleeting and fragile, yet electric, a testament to the quiet power of connection amid a dark, controlled reality. Jane is fleeting, delicate, yet undeniably real in her way—a spark of quiet defiance, a living testament to hope that dares to breathe, even when the world tries to snuff it out. Without her, you are without hope.

2084

The song tells the tale of a long-forgotten guide, a mystical lantern bearer who stands alone in the depths, casting a soft, flickering light into the darkness. For centuries, this guide has waited in silence, offering a beacon of warmth and hope to all who seek the path in times of despair. The song’s verses explore the melancholic beauty of the guide’s endless vigil, with imagery of mist and shadow, as weary travellers find solace in its light. And it will continue to do that so.

Despite being overlooked and nearly forgotten, the guide’s light never wavers, shining as a steadfast reminder that even in the darkest of times, hope can be found—if one dares look for it.

Flickering Hope

The street lay silent, bathed in the dim glow of a sun sinking into the horizon. Cracked asphalt stretched endlessly, shadows trembling in the fading light. Empty windows reflected the amber sky, their hollowness heavy with loss. Yet, in the stillness, the light clung to the edges, a fragile ember refusing to fade. The road stretched forward, endless, into the dying glow as if carrying a quiet promise that the sun would rise again.

All That Could Ever Be

It is a ballad about memory and the futile attempts to find closure when someone you love is gone. It explores the metaphor of a pyre, reflecting the changing stages, and resonates as an intimate ode to both the pain of loss and resilience.

Tristesse

Post Tempus is a raw ballad of loss and longing, painted in the metaphor of a boy sitting by rusted rail tracks, waiting for a train that will never come. The rail tracks are the lifelines of a world long silenced, stretching endlessly into the barren horizon—a symbol of connection severed and hope abandoned. The boy, a lone figure against a broken sky, embodies humanity’s quiet yearning to return to what was, even as the weight of finality settles in the air.

The song moves like the ghost of a train: slow, rhythmic, and mournful, with melodies that echo like distant whistles fading into the unsettling sound of silence.

Post Tempus

A melancholic ballad with a slow, delicate tempo, carrying an air of quiet introspection. The song is built on soft, reverberating guitar chords and a gentle piano melody that drifts like fading memories. A subtle layer of ambient synths and distant echoes add to the dreamlike atmosphere, making it feel like a final lullaby before sleep takes over. The song lingers like a last thought before slipping into the unknown.

The Last Word Before I Close My Eyes

The lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the empty room. The ink had started to dry, but the letter remained unfinished. The words, carefully formed yet incomplete, stretched across the yellowed paper like fragile threads of thought unravelling.

She sat there, hunched over the desk, her fingers trembling. 

Outside, the wind howled against the windowpane, whispering secrets only she could understand.

There was no one to write to. No one left to receive it.

The loneliness gnawed at her, an endless hunger in the pit of her soul. She had tried to pour it onto the page, to give it shape, to let it escape—but it clung to her, wrapping around her like the darkness.

The ink bled too quickly, spreading a stain instead of a word. She watched it, mesmerized as if it embodied everything she could not say.

The emptiness inside her was vast, a hollow expanse that no amount of letters could fill.

Slowly, she folded the letter, sealing its silence within. It joined the others in the drawer—dozens of letters, never sent, never read.

The lamp died.

And in the darkness, she sat alone.

Unwritten Goodbyes

The woods were quiet but not silent. The wind carried memories between the branches. The leaves murmured things forgotten. And the one who walked did not speak, for there was no need. Words had grown heavy in the world they left behind.

They followed no path, only instinct. Drawn ever onward by something unseen. Sometimes, in the distance, a pair of eyes would watch. Gentle, deep, unafraid. And each time, they would follow.

Nights came soft and cold. They lit fires of fallen limbs and watched the sparks rise like lost voices. In the crackle and hush, they remembered. Not in sharp pictures but in feelings—the warmth of someone’s hand, the sound of laughter in another life. It hurt, but sweetly. Like a scar, you no longer mind touching.

Then, one night, beneath a sky woven with stars, the deer came close.

It did not run. It did not speak. But in its stillness was an answer.

The one who walked understood. Some things are not meant to be held, only followed. Some healing does not come in circles but in long, quiet lines through wild places.

They did not return. But the forest remembers them.

And sometimes, if the wind is just right, and you are very still, you may hear footsteps among the leaves—not lost, not wandering.

Just walking.

Whispers Without a Sound

Darkwood

No one remembered when the pines first grew. They had stood long before any trail was carved through the valley, before rivers chose their paths and storms learned the lay of the land. They had watched winters pile high and summers fall into themselves like slow sighs.

And in all that time, they had never spoken. Not when the bear cub first wandered beneath their shade and vanished. Not when the mountain cracked in its sleep, sending stone down like falling stars. Not when the stream below stopped singing for a season and returned with a softer voice.

But they listened. They listened to the moss that crept up their trunks, telling stories in green. They listened to the wind that passed through like a ghost with nowhere else to be. They listened to the silence that came, years ago, and never left.

Beneath the Old Pines

She stepped through what used to be a door, careful not to drag her pack across the broken tile. Light filtered in through the collapsed ceiling, catching dust in the air like falling ash. 

Behind the counter, she found two cans of peaches under a rusted sink. The labels were faded but intact. She shook one gently. It was still full. There was no hiss. There was no rot. 

She placed one can beside him, the other in her lap. They hadn’t eaten yet. Outside, wind moved through broken buildings like someone trying to remember a song. But for a moment, the world felt still.

Just two cans and an old LP. Just enough.

Where I Turned Away

This soul-stirring indie folk anthem weaves imagery of wilderness, fate, and self-discovery into a lyrical journey. The song opens with wind-swept verses that evoke a sense of wandering through nature's raw beauty and unpredictability. It contrasts human vulnerability with the untamed forces of the earth - rivers, storms, stars, and roots; all symbols of something larger and unknowable.

The song explores themes of destiny, resilience, and identity with haunting melodies and poetic lyricism. The chorus surges like a primal call, reminding us that we are part of something ancient and elemental, more wild than divine. The bridge offers a philosophical turn, questioning the nature of fate and suggesting that life’s rhythm is felt more than understood.

Powerful yet intimate, this track speaks to those who find freedom in uncertainty and meaning in the natural chaos of existence.

Whispers

The Drunken Goose

The Bottom Of The Bottle

This is a secret laboratory storage for experimental research, disparate styles, and neon lights, dedicated to the synth-wave-ish music scene and a kind of revisionist 80s music style of synthesizers and pulsing beats. Driven by life, anime, and memes.

Listen closely to the music. It's not just a melody; it's a coded message waiting for the discerning ear. A labyrinth beckons the observer to decipher its hidden meaning.

A new wave in indie music, seamlessly blending the nostalgic vibes of the 80s with a modern, synth-wave twist. In the pulsating realm of nitegrow's soundscapes, listeners embark on a sonic journey that transcends time.

The music is not just a mere homage; it's a reinterpretation, a sonic exploration that breathes new life into the era of analogue synths and pulsating rhythms. nitegrow taps into the essence of the past, channelling it through a modern lens to create a distinctive and evocative musical experience.

The ambience created by nitegrow is a sonic tapestry that envelops listeners, transporting them to a world where retro meets the avant-garde. Each composition is a carefully crafted piece of art, where nostalgia collides with innovation, giving rise to a sound that is both familiar and refreshingly novel.

nitegrow

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