Woke up wearing someone else’s frame.
My name was in it…
but it didn’t fit.
The mirror didn’t crack.
Still…
it hit.

Every breath drags
like a rusted chain.
Joints grind slow—
bone to brain.
Can’t show it.
Can’t name it.
Can’t trace where it starts…
but it ends
in everything.

Everything hurts—
but nothing’s broken.
No bruise to explain
the words left unspoken.
I move through the fire
like it ain’t mine…
Still wear the pain
like a second spine.

Used to heal fast.
Now I stall in place.
Used to hold weight—
now it holds my face.
The nights scream quiet,
the mornings accuse.
Even God looks tired
when I light the fuse.

Everything hurts—
but nothing’s broken.
No limp, no cast,
just heat unspoken.
Still lift the mask,
still fake the climb…
Still say I’m fine—
but I know I’m lyin’.

Ever scream and nothing moves?
Ever feel your hands…
but lose the use?
That’s the quiet hell
that wears my name.
Can’t scream it loud—
can’t shake the shame.

Everything hurts—
but nothing’s broken.
Pain with no shape,
hope left half-spoken.
I drag this weight,
still keep the form…
The body stays
but the soul feels worn.

Still walking.
Still aching.
Still ain’t done yet.
Still here.


Everything Hurts, Nothing's Broken

Pulled from the reservation to get an education far from home
Scars of desolation, seeking annihilation, dope mojo
Met you at the station, rehabilitation, methadone
I clung in desperation, you dispensed salvation to my soul

- Pilar Dolorosa, Pilar Gloriosa, Amazona
- Pilar Lagrimosa, Pilar Furiosa, Hiawatha

Where there's no inspiration there's constant altercation, weeds are sown
I shrank from affection, you found a new direction on your own

sheet music https://drive.google.com/file/d/17BlgSCjwQc90oeeZHzfaGqhlJQYi7JZM/view?usp=drive_link
3.1

PILAR

Aporia is a confrontation with the void—the kind of album that doesn’t just play, it unravels you. It starts with a controlled chaos, pulling apart the scaffolding of thought, then drags you deeper into the soft, distorted pulse of dissolution. You don’t listen to this record so much as experience it—your sense of time slips, your body forgets where it ends, and your mind keeps circling questions it can’t answer.

The sound is heavy but never violent. It’s cerebral, textured, haunting. Guitars melt into ambience, drums skip and fracture, and the voice—resonant and human—threads through it all like a tether you’re not sure you trust. It feels ancient and futuristic at once. Cold yet intimate. Like you’re remembering something that hasn’t happened yet.

By the end, you’re not the same. You’ve stood in the place where thought gives up, and you’ve felt the silence stare back.

Aporia doesn’t give you peace.
It gives you the beauty of falling apart—on purpose.

Ash of the Real

Flesh of Logic

Noesis

The Axon Reversal

Krisis

Theorem Zero

Untimeness

Dreaming The Bone

Apokatastasis

I work with machines the way some people work with memory—shaping what’s already there, not to control it, but to understand it. The tools I use are made of code, but the intent behind them is completely human.

R.U.D.Y. began as a fictional band. A name I could hide behind. But over time, that fiction became the most honest expression I had. It stopped being a mask and started becoming a mirror—a place to reflect the moments we don’t have words for, the spaces between emotions that feel too raw or too distant to name.

I call what I do synthwrighting. Not because it sounds futuristic, but because it feels accurate. I don’t write songs—I uncover them. I collaborate with algorithms the way a sculptor chips away at stone. Sometimes the machine surprises me. Sometimes it just listens. But what emerges is always shaped by instinct, memory, and feeling.

These songs aren’t performances. They’re echoes. Sonic fragments of questions I don’t always know how to ask. I’m not here to offer answers or compete with noise—I’m here to slow things down enough that something deeper can be heard.

R.U.D.Y. is not a band. It’s not even really a name. It’s a signal. A reminder. Something you’re meant to feel before you understand.

And if you’re still listening, that means you're not done yet.

Everything Hurts, Nothing's Broken

R.U.D.Y

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