♥«--• In the past, I'd elaborate a backdrop for why any of this exists, but truth be told, the story isn't mine to tell. As a mote of dust floats invisibly cloaked until a spectrum of light reveals it, does it change anything? It was there all the same. . . Yet, it does no harm to understand the origin.

Rather, the greatest of stories are the ones filtered into our minds from experiences and perspectives that aren't an echo chamber of our own design. What do you see... what do you f e e l ? •--»♥

I o t a (Dream Phase)

D r e a d Nought

V a l s a l v a

P i r o u ette

A e o l i a n

P i n g (Baud Buoy)

S i g n a l s in the A i r

The ticking c l o c k, the pace and speed... a taste of a cosmic drift. All you want to do is run full speed as far as your legs will go before they buckle underneath 

...until you are a gasping heap of energy trapped inside a flesh vessel, only to face it all over once again. The grind and the pendulum swinging day to day. Relentless.

S i d e w a y s Glance

That fleeting flood of emotion, ever so convincing, that you have seen something before... the face in the mirror, after experiencing great strife, that twists and turns like a kaleidoscope. Someone you once knew. Your features; A living breathing Picasso shifting like tectonic plates under the soil.

With the looming veil of dystopia, a melancholy crack in the armor that surrounds a beating heart tears open as you let yourself go. The concept, the identity clung to so deeply that it knocks the wind out of you. The stepping stones that slide out from under your feet conspire to either evolve you or become the catalyst of your plummet.

Full Credit to Alan Watts for his speech 'The Dream of Life' which I have great respect for the philosophy of thought.

D é j à v u

A symbolic silhouette watches you from an alleyway. A coin flips as they observe your movements. What do they w a n t ? The coin drops as their silent gait melts into the atmosphere around them. 

Navigating the streets with ease, they follow you. It's windy so the sounds continue to obscure as you walk up a set of stairs that you realize used to echo with each foot stomp. They slither into the crack of the door.... and then begin to wander the hallways. 

Doors. Locked. Everything in a barrier of denial and rejection. Then they start to pick the lock. Like a maestro of an orchestra, movements up and down - side to s i d e in defiance. You will not stop them with such trivial formality. You have resources. It shall be theirs, too. 

For they are the ever growing selfish egoist that does not care what stands in their way. You have it, they want it. Desperation rises like fog in the morning to greet faces, empty e y e orbs that only feel desire for what they do not have. 

They manage to find their way in to all your corridors. Rummage into your every crevice. And like a lion, they walk away with the spoils of your labor. This entity isn't as singular as once thought, not at all. It is now a plume - a storm cloud that lingers overhead socially and politically. 

Zippers ascend and descend on tracks to the rhythm of fallen bodies and coins filling.. clinking and filling these bags until they can barely be closed. 

Then and only then... to lurk away in the quiet of night with all that you once had. Whistle a tune like a cursed nightingale only they are not caged, you are the one who is caged. Inside your box. Who is really f r e e ?

S c o u n d r e l

«--• If you are here, you made a wrong dimensional turn into Amateur Music and Obscure Artistry that is Forged in Sagan. Watts. Nietzsche. Midnight Fuel. Compelled to Create. Flawed. Resilience Resonates. •--»

Resin8s