welcome to imaginary friends. this ep aims to show more of our softer side, as always, enjoy <3

dancing on the moon

An album about the first generation born fully inside the machine.
Children of the Algorithm moves from analogue childhood into the soft glow of the digital age, capturing the moment the world changed without anyone noticing. Twelve glitch-folk songs explore memory offloading, infinite scroll lullabies, baby’s first prompt, and the quiet way technology becomes home before we learn what “home” means.
A warm, eerie journey from the weight of a word to the logic of the feed — human voices dissolving into signal, then returning.

What the Machine Remembers

Lovehearts is a cinematic coming-of-age album set on a park bench by the Thames in the year 2000, where one rare Love Heart sweet accidentally predicts the end of a first love. Each track imagines a different future branching from that single moment — the versions where they stay, leave, try, fail, grow up, or grow apart.

Told through alternating voices, soft folk, glitchy pop, and warm London ambience, this album is about timing, almosts, and the small choices that shape an entire life. A nostalgic, modern multiverse of love, loss, and the sweetness of letting go.

ONLY YOU

GOODBYE

"Breaking up for Xmas" is a late-night indie breakup album set in the two weeks before Christmas.
A young man walks through cold streets, family noise, old rituals and almost-texts, facing the truth he’s been avoiding: missing someone doesn’t mean he should go back.
Lo-fi guitars, small-amp crunch, close-mic’d vocals and raw December honesty carry him through twelve songs about heartbreak, habit, winter softness, and the slow, uneven work of moving on.
It’s intimate, angular, tender, and painfully human — a quiet story told in the coldest part of the year.

TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS

THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS

BREAKING UP FOR CHRISTMAS

THE CITY SHRINKS is a ska-indie breakup album told by a younger quantum me who thinks he can fix feelings with logic, plans, or a good Tesco meal deal. He can’t — and that’s the joke and the tragedy.

Across twelve jangly, frantic, hyper-real London tracks, he stumbles through pubs, night buses, parks, Shoreditch pavements, and the kind of conversations where one person asks to be heard while the other proudly offers solutions. His mates try to help, the city keeps getting smaller, and every shortcut to healing turns into another reminder that he can’t out-think heartbreak.

The guitars are scrappy and warm, the drums punchy, the vocals half-spoken, half-broken, and the songs bounce with the kind of upbeat melancholy you only get when you’re not okay but pretending hard enough to dance anyway.

It’s funny until it hurts.
It’s sad until it laughs.
It’s the sound of a city closing in and a heart finally learning to breathe.

What the Machine Remembers

Quantum me