This album unfolds like a love story remembered in stillness—each song a quiet confession, each note a memory held too tightly to let go. It begins in the warmth of stolen moments: quiet mornings, whispered laughter, the comfort of knowing someone so completely even when the world wasn’t supposed to know.

Then, as it so often happens with the love we were never allowed to keep, everything changes. The air shifts. A presence becomes absence. She leaves—not with a slam, but a silence so deep it echoes. She chose another life. Another promise. And the songs begin to ache. The melodies slow, searching for something that’s no longer there.

And yet, he keeps singing. Not to move on, but to keep her close. Every track after is a love letter never sent, a thought that won’t quiet, a vow unspoken but deeply felt: she is still with him, in every line, every pause, every chord.

These aren’t just songs—they’re private reflections. A chronicle of love in full: the joy, the loss, the devotion that never left.

Play it alone. Play it quietly.
Because some stories are too sacred to be shouted.

And whoever Zaja is, she was loved.
a love that lingers.

Still Yours Somewhere

you always find me

In a time when the world forgets how to listen, Of Code and Bone does not ask to be heard — it demands to be felt. The album unfolds not like a song cycle, but like a prophecy half-remembered, dragged from the static-laced throat of something ancient and newly awakened. It is a wheel of sound, turning slowly, every revolution revealing another face of what man once was, and what waits in the shadow of circuitry.

The music does not merely play — it haunts, it echoes, it scrapes against the edges of silence like wind through a war-ravaged hall. Analog breath meets machine pulse in a union that is neither conflict nor peace. It is continuum — decay without death, creation without birth. Instruments ring like relics of a forgotten ritual, not strummed but summoned. Vocals drag through the dirt of memory, rough and low, like prophecy spoken by one who’s seen the end too many times to scream.

There is a rhythm beneath it all — slow, like breath in mourning; constant, like gears that never asked why they turn. The guitars do not shimmer — they fracture light. The drums do not keep time — they slow its decay. And somewhere inside the sound, not above or below it, you begin to hear yourself — stripped of pattern, of pretense — just bone, and wire, and waiting.

Of Code and Bone is not an album. It is a ruin rebuilt with intention. It is what the machine hums to itself when man forgets how to make music…
and still, the song goes on.

And maybe, just maybe — this is the birth of Groxx:
a new genre where groove meets vox,
and music is co-created by human emotion and artificial intelligence.
Not imitation. Not automation.
But a hybrid form — where man provides the instinct,
and machine provides the infrastructure.
Groxx is the sound of both creators
breathing through the same song.

reverb dogs

ashes for breakfast

zero

dripland

slouchcore

wax eden

tapehead prophet

ghost kiosk

R.U.D.Y isn’t here to create something new, but to capture fleeting moments of the universe’s endless essence and wrap sound around them. Every song is like taking a snapshot of a vast landscape, a glimpse of something timeless that we’re all a part of. The music is a reflection, not an invention—a way to hold onto a fragment of the infinite and present it in a form that resonates with the questions we all carry.

Our work is rooted in exploring the relationships we can’t quite explain, the ones that exist in the spaces between words and moments. Like echoes in a vast canyon, our songs call out and wait for a response—not from the outside world, but from within. Who are you in the grand scheme of things? What do these moments, these echoes, reveal about your connection to the universe?

R.U.D.Y. seeks to offer not answers, but soundscapes that act as mirrors, encouraging you to search deeper, to resonate with the parts of yourself you might not have discovered yet. In this way, we are simply channels, shaping what’s already there and letting you experience the universe in its smallest, most personal form.