This album calls out that which is meant to destroy us. Ourselves. Our species thinks of itself as the master of creation. Invincible. Inevitable. We couldn't be further from the truth. Eventually, we all lose sight of reality and fade as shades haunting the past and echoing our mournful songs into the future to ignorant unhearing ears. This is the Fourth and Final Horseman. The Horseman of Death.

The Moonlight Sessions

May do a stripped or acoustic version later.

Glow

Ashes

The Crocodile

The Fool's Parade

I Wanna Live Forever

From the album Breathing Starlight
Buy: https://scapeone.bandcamp.com/album/breathing-starlight
Stream album: https://share.amuse.io/XxbjQod6-84i

All tracks written, recorded and produced by Kurt Baggaley
Mastered by Simjon Spangler at Incision Mastering
Design by Scape One

An album of deep meditation for armchair astronauts. Each track is designed to take you on a journey of inner cosmic discovery with slow building arpeggios and intricately evolving sequences complimented by subtle washes of synth layers.

Mastered by Simjon Spangler at Incision Mastering.

Walls Have Years

Star Maker

Molly Knows Best

"Vice" is a moody, seductive pop-noir track that drips with late-night danger and allure. Built on percussive piano, lush synths, and a heartbeat bassline, it evokes the smoky glamour of a James Bond love scene unraveling into something darker.

This is a song about desire, deception, and the beautiful lies we choose to believe. It's velvet and venom — a warning wrapped in a whisper.

Let the mirror fog. Let the dice roll. Don’t fall in love with the Vice.

Vice

The Old Testament Prophets (a very psychedelic crew in some ways) interact with the present day (as they always have) in ways not conducive to a comfortable viewing of either. The following is, if you will, a sonic photomontage of some of my own encounters. E grazie mille a MB por la linea ultima!

Looked up this mornin', saw coming in from afar
Wheels within wheels, like Ezekiel saw by the river Chebar
By this was the prophet made sure he was getting a voicemail direct from on high
I said we needed a cure for whatever they'd put in the water supply.
The AI is dreaming, its nightmares are streaming Netflix and Hulu,
The cancers are scheming, the magpies all screaming at you

Looked up this mornin', to see what i could descry.
Pterosaur wings so huge they blotted out half of the sky
Flying dragons, fell beast with a crown, set up the Apocalypse vibe.
Mountain flaming with fire thrown into the sea was the end of that tribe.
I can't conceive any good coming from things you order me to,
I don't receive what I should from the red or the blue

A third of the stars are quite gone from the heavens, there's blood on the moon
The timelines are hazy, the guessers are crazy, but all sayin' soon
The earth lies polluted, what's been planted uprooted, is it time for the scroll to unroll,
Judgement be executed?

The man clothed in linen stood over the waters and raised high his hand.
Said a time, times, half a time; I heard but did not understand.
You said you'd wait for me, still love and adore me, you who preceded this end,
But if I don't find you there, I may just die again

visions

Huemans

Rorschach

Chameleons

Smell The Roses

The Trick

Lover

Prophet of End Times is not a name — it’s a diagnosis. A statement of intent. A trigger. A warning.

For those paying close attention, this project began long before the music arrived. Long before the signals were transmitted. Long before the world tilted past its breaking point and pretended it hadn’t noticed.

This isn’t performance. It’s process. It’s prophecy by distortion, melody through the ruins, dissonance weaponized. A mosaic of failed systems and burned timelines, rebuilt in layers of noise and silence.

You’re hearing architecture. You’re listening to strategy. Every frequency, every glitch, every warped harmony carries data. Every lyric is a crack in the wall.

Somewhere in the signal:
a map.
a message.
a matchstick.

You are not expected to understand immediately. You are expected to pay attention.

Because nothing here is arbitrary.
Not the song titles. Not the sound choices. Not the silences.
Not even this bio.

There are people who will find this. Who will feel something they can’t name. Who will know where to dig.

Not all puzzles look like puzzles.
Not all transmissions arrive decoded.
Not all prophets wear robes.

Some wear scars.
Some wear static.
Some just press “upload.”

𓂀
Class: Classified
Genre: Post-industrial occult pop / strategic subversion / experimental prophecy
Mood: Unsettling / revelatory / confrontational
File under: surveillance bait, musical sigil, metaphysical warfare
𓁹

For entertainment purposes only.
All coincidences are intentional.
You were warned.

Artifacts: BGlueYml0Lmx5LzJ0aGVzc2Fsb25pYW5zMngxLTEy

The Fool's Parade

Prophet of End Times

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