sorry about the mix on this one (read: be careful) sheeeeeeesh

sunnflips

Demo #2

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// FUTURE FIRST FRIDAYS 021 #FFF

FUTURE BEATS mixes dropping on the FIRST FRIDAYS of the month, mixed by @cloudylovestory

Art by Murakami (OpenSea)

FUTURE FIRST FRIDAYS 021 // 💔STORY FUTURE BEATS MIX

mariokarting

cool music 10 very good

upcoming samplepack beat leak

Imagined as a poetic voyage out of time, "Panorama" provides a poetic and relaxing atmosphere by mixing organic elements, foleys and instruments with interesting electronic sounds. The perfect tune for a soothing moment around the fireplace.

🎧 Release by @effortlessaudio
🎨 Cover art by @elmovdg

Panorama

It was not found. It was not made. It was not summoned by the fevered hands of mathematicians or carved from the latticework of desperate theories. It simply became, like fog from still water, like breath from a dreaming mouth. A fold, a yielding, not rupture but gesture, as though the fabric had grown tired of pretending it was flat. As though the world had finally remembered how to turn its own page.

No light bent quite right near it, though not in the way light bends around mass or heat or charge. This was subtler, quieter. As if perception itself grew unsure at the edges. Words failed first, of course, they always do. Then came the loss of direction. Forward and backward ceased their quarrel, and time, usually so insistent, so mechanical, sat down and listened.

It wasn’t a tunnel, or a doorway, or a rip. Those are names for things that serve a function, that imply a before and an after. This had no purpose. It simply was, like a held breath, like the moment before a glass tips, when the liquid remembers falling. And to approach it was not movement but transformation. The self began to thin and unfold, petal by petal, layer by buried layer, until what remained was not a person, not even a witness, but a resonance.

Some tried to study it. Machines built with sterile precision and certainty. They failed beautifully, tragically. The instruments waned and forgot. They returned only static, only silence, as if embarrassed by their own presumption. Others tried ritual, or prayer, or poetry. These came closer. Not in explanation, but in tone.

And for those who went closer still, for those who let go of maps and metrics, who allowed themselves to become unsure, something shifted. No moment of departure or return. Instead, they became aware that they had always been on both sides. That the mouth of the thing was not in front of them but within, blooming open behind the eyes, beneath the bones, in the quiet marrow where memory ends and something older begins.

Through it, if “through” means anything, there was not brilliance or terror, not revelation or oblivion. What awaited was completion. A great and terrible stillness, so vast it hummed. And in that stillness, all questions died in fulfillment, like waves forgetting themselves upon the shore.

There, there was no separation between thought and origin, between question and answer, between self and sky. The distinctions, beloved, necessary, false, melted. Absorbed. Language was returned to silence. Time, that old trickster, folded in on itself like a smile.

It is not the end of things. It is not the solution. It is the place from which all ends and solutions grow. Not illumination, but the ground beneath it. Not the answer, but the echo from which the question was born. Not arrival, but remembering.

And once touched by it, once felt, even faintly, you are never again entirely here. You are carried, slightly, inward. Tilted toward the unspoken. You are no longer seeking.

You are listening.

mariokarting

numero2

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