Euphoria Elevation

07 Tracid

Well holy hell Andre it's mushroom-spaceship bananza or maybe it's just a banana OOORRR MAYBE a bandana! :) enjoy crew!
Hahah I might of taken it too far with the spaceship scene but I just couldn't get enough :)

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The Story ➜
The first time the stars breathed, Kiera thought the station’s windows were fogging from the inside. A ribbed pattern shimmered over the night—fine, parallel lines radiating outward, folding and unfolding like the underside of some celestial creature. Then the pattern vanished and the sky returned to the ordinary cold scattering of points.

Kiera held still, counting. Three seconds. Five. Eight.

The pattern returned, faint but certain: silver lamellae sliding across the constellations, as if the dark itself wore gills.

She killed the cabin lights of the Kite of Radials and let her eyes adjust. The ship—a grafted thing of bone-white ribs and black ceramic tissue—hung docked on Harbor Nine like a seed caught in a spiderweb. In the dim, the cockpit felt more grown than built: vein trails in the console resin, organ-glass curled around the navigation core, the slow pulse of the hull’s self-healing membranes.

“Show me the sky raw,” she said.

The glass peeled back its filters. Deep field flooded in, along with the faint photonic noise the station usually scrubbed. There—again—the slow, tidal sweep of lines, not atmosphere, not lensing, not a glitch. It was a rhythm. A breath.

Kiera’s left hand eased toward the lamina compass she wore on a cord around her throat. It was an old, illegal thing: a coin of frost-glass with a thin gold filament threading inside it like a living maze. At first breath the filament trembled; at the second it traced a curve to starboard. By the third, it formed an arc that settled toward a patch of nothing near the Mirror Belt.

“Coordinates,” she whispered, and the Kite woke by degrees—panels unfurling, thrusters whispering, marrow engines tasting vacuum.

Three months earlier, a courier had handed her a cloth-wrapped bundle with no name. Inside: the lamina compass and a single line of handwriting, shaped like a sigh.

Find where the stars learn to breathe.

Kiera had laughed then, because she had spent years mapping lies dressed as mysteries. Contracts with extraction fleets taught her that most wonders hid pipes and price tags. But now, with the compass thrumming and the windows showing parallel ridges slipping over starfields, the old skepticism felt thin and brittle. This wasn’t a trick. The sky had gills.

She undocked without asking permission. Harbor Nine came from a culture that never said no if you didn’t ask first, and Kiera had long since learned to protect that balance.

The Kite drifted, then glided, then became a line spreading away from the station into the black.

Continues on the website.


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Gills in the Stars | Psychedelic Music Video @ YouTube

Music video : https://youtu.be/fV8jBmirnjM

Peak-time pressure meets cosmic ship cove voyage — a 3D techno odyssey.
Melodic shadows + industrial grit = peak-time visual ignition.
Ship Gaze Phantom — Progressive Techno | Cinematic Warehouse Voyage
Boats boats and more boats!

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ᓚᘏᗢ


The Story ➜
No story, just a healthy obsession with boats :)

Key frames on the website.


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Ship Gaze Phantom | A Cinematic Music Video on YouTube

This music video is trippy az - took a minute : https://youtu.be/riJ2PAnbyzQ

Dark, hypnotic, warehouse‑ready techno—step into the Index and don’t look back.
Rolling bass, acid edges, space‑bound pulse—built for late hours.
From void to city: a cinematic techno journey.

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The Story ➜
There is a library that rotates around a star that does not shine.

The star is called the Umbra Crown, an object that drinks light the way dry soil swallows rain. Around it, on a safe, slow ring, floats the Palimpsest Array—thirty‑one linked hulls and one cathedral of glass mathematics, all of it oriented toward a thing no eye can see. The Array keeps records of what the universe attempts, fails, revises, and forgets.

In Vault Nine, behind shutters etched with compass roses, the Index of Lost Vectors sleeps in a cradle of null‑metal. It is not a book. It is not a map. It is a living catalog of directions that once were real and then weren’t: bearings erased by paradox, routes collapsed by war, trajectories canceled by the absolute pressure of someone’s choice.

Every so often, a new arrow appears in the Index, pointing toward nothing and still insisting it points. That insistence is hard to ignore when your job title is Vectorist.

Kael Ivers had held that title for sixteen years. They had seen the Index wake exactly three times.

On the fourth, the arrows did not appear.

They bloomed.

I — Arrowfall

Kael did not dream in pictures. They dreamed in angles: a narrow gate of ninety degrees held like a promise, an indulgent sweep of one hundred twenty that never closed where you thought it would. That night, in the small sleep between the first cup of bitter broth and the second, Kael dreamed a circle that would not stay circle. It kept erupting with tangents, each tangent a pale hairline of intent.

They woke with the taste of tin in their mouth and the feeling of a room straightening around them.

“Vault Nine,” said the Array, warm and calm in Kael’s ear. The Array never hurried its vowels. “The Index is agitated.”

Kael rolled off the hammock, slid into a field jacket, and jogged through the airless corridor. The shard windows along the passage showed a black full of small, reluctant stars. The Umbra Crown lived where no starlight reached, but the shyer stars still haunted the periphery.

The vault door recognized Kael’s gait before it recognized their badge. Inside, the Index floated—a torus of glass, a halo with a heart. When it slept, it looked like a ring made by someone who understands rings only as an idea. When it woke, angles sprouted from it the way grass erupts after a secret rain.

Today, it was a meadow.

Thousands of vectors had blossomed out of the torus, paper‑thin and luminous. They didn’t point to random; they pointed toward a choreography. Some curved, some refused to bow; others leaned with the authority of a road that predates the city it enters.

Kael did not touch it. They didn’t have to. The vectors brushed the surface of their attention and left afterimages that behaved like memory. The taste of tin intensified.

Continues on the website.


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Index of Lost Vectors | Uber Trippy Morphing Music Video @ YouTube

Set  from ABSB year 2

Psychedelic music video : https://youtu.be/w57--vqBbmo

Lanterns lead the way—hypnotic, peak‑time energy for the night shift.
Dark, driving, hypnotic—follow the path and don’t look back.
From hush to relentless groove—step into the Elsepath.

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The Story  ➜  ᓚᘏᗢ
I — The Beacon and the First Lantern

At moon‑zero, the meadow remembered how to breathe.

Its surface looked like dew until you knelt close and saw the dew was a crowd of micro‑lanterns—round as seeds, each holding a patient ember—the kind of glow you notice first in your peripheral vision. They were asleep, nested at the rims of opal‑capped mushrooms whose gills pulsed as if listening for a hand. The air tasted bright, with a citrus‑metal afterthought. Somewhere underfoot, a slow machine turned: roots counting, capillaries arguing, distance learning to be flexible.

Iri arrived without sound, a dark coat unruffled by the sideways breeze. They had been told the Elsepath only appears to people who are not sure the next step belongs to them. That was true. Uncertainty had followed them for months, soft and insistent as fog. It had the shape of a coin they did not own, and the weight of a question that would not settle.

On this night, a Fractal Beacon uncoiled above the meadow like a spiral drawn by a patient giant. It wasn’t a tower or a flame but a geometry of light, threadlike and certain, rising from the mushroom field and stopping at a height that felt intentional. When it pulsed, hundreds of the tiny lanterns woke in a quiet shiver and lifted, no heavier than breath, to form a hovering halo of seeds around Iri’s shoulders.

“Lanterns of the Elsepath,” Iri said without speaking. It was not a spell. It was manners.

The lanterns answered by drifting into a pattern—three triangles arranged inside a fourth, lines of glow between them like veins in a leaf. The pattern hung in the air, rotated once, and slid forward, an invitation to follow. The Beacon brightened by a degree the eye could not measure but the skin could feel. The mushrooms nodded, gills opening, exhaling a faint, LSD‑like color split that sliced Iri’s silhouette into green, violet, and cobalt for a blink. When the colors rejoined, the Elsepath appeared under their feet.

It didn’t look like a road. It looked like an angle deciding to last.

Iri stepped onto it.

II — Lattice Footfall

The path assembled one stride ahead, one stride behind, never all at once: a lattice of glass treads supported by nothing, each step humming a tone you didn’t hear so much as feel as a temperature of blue. The lanterns gathered at ankle and wrist height, forming little way‑plumes that cooled when the foot was placed, warmed when it lifted, learning Iri’s rhythm with the eagerness of new rain memorizing a roof.

On either side of the lattice, the meadow folded into planes of possibility like pages that had forgotten which book they belonged to. In one plane, a fog of DMT dragonflies combed the air with thread‑thin UV trails, knitting invisible nets that only became visible when a lantern drifted too near and lit them. In another, the horizon had a seam—just a neat stitch of gold—where day and night agreed to shake hands.

Continues on the website.


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Lanterns of the Elsepath >|< Psy Music Video at Youtube

He sacrificado la primera sesión por falta de espacio :) En esta ocasión mezclo temas más actuales, entre 145-150 bpm Quizás haga una segunda parte subiendo hasta los 155 bpm!!!

need extended version?

Psychedelic Music Video : https://youtu.be/FiU4FKbE_LE

I've been working on this one for a minute and put a lot of love into it.
This type of trippy psychedelics is what really gets me going.
I had a lot of fun working on this track and video! 
*Drop* hope you enjoy it!

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜ Where Spores Learn Our Names (;~)

Prologue — The Gate That Grew from Stone

The gate unfurled from a canyon wall as if a fern remembered how to breathe. Its ribs were glassy quartz shot through with ink‑dark filaments; under each rib, gills of soft teal glowed as though moonlight were trapped and happy about it. Spore‑mist slept in the hollows of the carving, drifting like a slow snowfall that refused to fall.

Naelith stood before it, a lank, luminous figure whose skin carried a faint constellation of freckles that moved when they did—a star‑map synced to pulse rather than sky. They were not born of flesh as we understand it; their body was a lattice of living crystal threaded with silvery hyphae, a humanoid silhouette assembled by intention more than blood. Their hair was a spill of fine mycelial fibers, each strand echoing the light around, sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes the color of wet slate. Across the sides of their throat, veils like the gills of a cap winked open and shut with each breath, reading the air the way others read ink.

On the gate’s surface, lines brightened into words, but not the kind that bind. A script of auroral curves rippled, and the gate spoke without sound: Enter, Nameless‑in‑motion. Let us practice you.

Naelith touched the rim. Spores awakened—an orchard’s worth of patient witnesses—and swirled to greet the palm. They tasted skin the way dawn tastes lake water, learning shape by contact. The stone sighed, and the gate parted.

I — Orchard of Singing Shadows

On the other side, night had learned to bloom.

Mushrooms rose on all sides, their caps like domes of pearl, their stems braided with runes so old even moss could only hum the chorus. Gills rippled under the caps in sheets, shimmering with teal and cobalt light. When a breeze pressed through, the gills sang: not a melody, but patterned breath, a language built from patience. Between the trunks, shadows kept their own council—and yet they moved companionably, as if eager to be stepped on.

Naelith entered the grove. Where their feet touched the ground, spores rose to nose at their ankles. Spore‑dust sparkled in nets of LSD lace—living veils that draped between caps like spiderwebs made from starlight and logic. The lace gave way with a clever rub, sliding apart into repeating motifs, each tessellation briefly recalling a past season: a winter where snow arrived from the wrong direction, a spring where flowers imitated bells and rang the fog awake.

Above, coin‑moths trailed through the trees, each with wings of frosted glass veined by aurora‑script. When they turned, their wings caught the orchard’s glow and flickered it into messages. One circled Naelith and hovered—the size of a small plate, eyes like patient citrine. Its wing veins pulsed, and a phrase formed: Your name is the space you keep between steps.

“Is that how the spores learn it?” Naelith asked, voice quiet to keep from disturbing the gills.

Continues on the website.


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Where Spores Learn Our Names | Trippy Mushroom Video @ YouTube

Music Video : https://youtu.be/mP6bBJcqZG4

Rolling, peak‑time techno engineered for the warehouse.
Dark, driving techno with industrial grit and acid ghosts.
A hypnotic techno descent—warehouse rave energy, cinematic rise.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
Hypha Crown Pilgrim

The door appeared where the salt‑blue plain met the thought of a horizon. It had no hinges and no handle—only a seam of rain‑smelling dusk that traced a tall, thin ellipse in the air, as if the world had remembered an opening and then drawn it by reflex. Under the crust of the plain, pale threads stirred. They quivered like sleepers waking from long, accurate dreams.

Saephra stood before the seam, studying the faint letters gathering along its edge. Letters wasn’t the right word. The markings looked like frost, moved like ideas, and each carried a taste—copper, cedar, old stars. Saephra read them without eyes; the gill‑veils at their throat tensed and released, sifting the air for sense the way oysters tease salt from tide.

Saephra’s body shifted with the wind. Bones of smoked glass, flexible and resonant. Skin thin and living, patterned like a leaf—networks of capillaries that were not blood but hyphae, carrying light where blood might have carried warmth. Their hair wasn’t hair so much as a down of dormant filaments, pearl‑grey now, yet to bloom into the arcs and tassels that would name them Pilgrim. Above Saephra floated a halo the size of a tea saucer, a ring of dew held together by tension and will. It was a seed, coaxed from the Root Cathedral and entrusted to no one and nothing—until it had chosen Saephra with a voice like gentle thunder and a soft, inexorable tug toward this seam.

A wind came across the plain; it lifted grains of salt and secreted them back into the ground. The seam inhaled. Lichen script bloomed brighter, and in that instant the door became a door by ceasing to be a question. Saephra stepped forward. The seam opened, becoming a corridor lined with lamps that grew by themselves—a procession of mushroom caps as thin as coins, each one lit from within. Their gills were a cartographer’s daydream, filigreed and tight; when Saephra moved, the lamps’ light split into orderly, LSD‑clean bands, and the air arranged the colors into columns like a filing system for rainbows.

Saephra bowed to the lamps. Not a learned bow, but the courtesy that happens when a breath regards another breath. The corridor exhaled in answer, and Saephra felt the ground begin to change beneath their feet—if feet were the word for the yes‑shaped pads that loosened when they needed grip and rolled into glides when the road called for speed. The floor became threads. Threads became a road. Through the weave of hyphae Saephra could see a second sky, slowly turning under all other things, wheels within wheels: a patient star‑machine.

In the thread‑road’s gleam, the dew seed above Saephra’s crown shivered. It would be a crown if it learned Saephra’s path well enough to answer it. Pilgrim was not a title given; it was a shape the world would admit only when worn by someone already walking like a pledge.

Continues on the website.


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Hypha Crown Pilgrim | Trippy Video on YouTUbe

Deep/minimal groove with trippy ultra‑real visuals. Enter the corridor.
A fractal sun over glass dunes—hypnotic techno immersion.
Dark kicks, deep subs, cosmic glow—get lost in the visuals.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
I — The Door Beneath the Dark

The star was a fever that never cooled. From orbit it painted the hard vacuum with spirals of color too precise to be chance: lime, magenta, ultraviolet lattices shimmering like the wings of mythic insects. The Hyphaeryx named it the LSD Sun for the way its light convinced stone to dream and dunes to rearrange themselves into perfect mandalas. Around this sun drifted a desert of comet‑ground silica, fused and refrozen into rippling continents. The dunes rolled on tides of radiance rather than wind, sculpted by spectra that moved with the patience of continental drift and the caprice of a hallucination.

Vhorin arrived not in a vessel but in a germination. His body stepped out of a seed that had been a star only yesterday; he shook the last dew of cold nebula from his shoulders and watched it evaporate into petals of cyan steam. The dunes murmured in color. Far beneath his feet, he felt the Hyphosphere stir—threads of living matter braided through the vacuum like the roots of a forest that had traded soil for starlight.

He walked until the dune‑faces climbed to meet the sky, tall as mountains and rimmed with auroral fire. At the base of one such face a circle of gills irised open in the dark glass as if the dune itself had been holding its breath. The hatch exhaled a fine mist—spores sculpted into vowels—and in their pattern Vhorin read greeting and test.

“I have come for the corridor,” he said, and his voice was a fiber of gold weaving itself into the mist.

The hatch widened. Beneath it, a stair spiraled away into a coolness that was not darkness so much as uncommitted color. Vhorin lifted one foot, then the other, and descended into the under‑dune where gravity behaved like a thought that refused to settle.

II — Gravities Turning

The stair did not point down. It turned toward a vector Vhorin could only name by taste: metal with a citrus tremor. Each step unhooked weight from one meaning and relayed it to another. The dunes above forgot he had ever stood upon them. Somewhere behind his eyes, a flock of phosphorescent glyphs convened: coordinates singing to each other in a language of angles.

Walls of interlaced hyphae rose around him, pale braids pulsing with slow, star‑blue light. He let his fingers brush the living weave. It shivered and disclosed a map—strands touched strands, and whole constellations changed their minds about where they lived. High overhead, where “overhead” was temporarily plural, he glimpsed DMT auroras sliding through the rock like cattails through riverwater: mint green, persimmon, electric violet. Each color drafted a hypothesis of the corridor’s location.

He tasted the air with the filaments along his wrists and whispered his lineage—the spore‑names and filament‑houses that had grown him. The stair humbled to a ramp and the ramp bent open into a chamber where the ceiling was not a ceiling but a low sky.

Continues on the website.


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Dunes of the LSD Sun | Cinematic Visual Trip @ YouTube

Hard techno + sci‑fi visuals—enter the dark warehouse at 4AM.
Peak‑time energy with hypnotic, trippy visuals in 4K—go deep.
Raw, deep, hypnotic techno—late‑night sci‑fi trip.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
Prologue: The Mote That Sang Coordinates
In the cold fold beyond the Perseid wake, a glint of biology threaded with machinery drifted like a seed waiting for soil. The vessel had once been named for a numbered star, but that name had long since been composted by its living hull. Now it was simply the Ship That Grew a Forest, and it was dreaming itself apart.

The call that reached the Lattice did not arrive as sound or code. It arrived as fragrance—notes of rain on copper, lichen warmed by moonlight, resin char from a fire that had never burned. Those who could taste messages tasted it and turned their attention. Those who could walk the geometry between intentions chose a courier.

The courier’s name was Vyr, a bipedal being of amber cartilage and night‑black bark. Vyr was not born so much as distilled from woodland thunder, given joints that clicked like patient metronomes and lungs thick with spores that glowed when it thought. It wore no armor, only a cloak woven from mycelial skeins that learned whatever they touched. Every step it took made a quiet pattern in the air, as if the floor had become a pond and its feet were pebbles thrown carefully into it.

At the edge of the derelict, Vyr found a hull grown into arches and buttresses, cathedral‑minded, a skeleton trellised with luminous growth. The ship had weathered vacuum as if vacuum were merely another winter. Filaments strung from rib to rib like constellations. Caps the size of shields opened to text the dark with bio‑luminescent grammar.

The scent‑message burned brighter. Vyr inhaled. The spores kindled in its lungs, and the path unfolded.

Continues on the website.


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The Ship That Grew a Forest | Music Video on YouTube

"Ndada drums" ist mein neuer Acid Techno Track den ich gerne mit euch teilen möchte. Die treibende, hypnotische 303-Bassline und der harte Beat sind inspiriert von der die ungefilterte, pulsierende Energie Rio's. Turn it up and lose yourself in the acid groove!

Ndada Drums

Virtual Rhythm

Psy music video : https://youtu.be/4FiV5PqiR84

Hypnotic melodic techno with trippy sci‑fi worlds—headphones on.
123 BPM deep melodic techno—cosmic warehouse energy, hypnotic groove.
Hypnotic techno + cinematic visuals: step through the mycelial gate.

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☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆


The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
By the time the firmament loosened, the sky poured in threads rather than rain. Each filament was a liquid line of star‑light, silver at its core and haloed by shifting colors, a river falling upward as much as down. The elders called it Liquid Star Dawn, a rare hour when the night remembered its own birth and melted into rivers that ran between the worlds. It happened once in an age, and it unstitched distance. Roads grew out of it like veins. Gateways remembered how to breathe.

On the edge of a bioluminescent vale, where luminous mushrooms rose like spires and bells, a figure waited who was not made of simple flesh. Vaelith was of the Luminari Myce, a humanoid people whose skin was a tapestry of living threads. Soft blue light drifted beneath her filaments the way pulse drifts beneath translucent wings. In the dark, she looked like a map of constellations walking upright. Along her skull grew a crown of pale, antler‑like hyphae; each antler sprouted tiny lantern caps whose gills breathed faint, cold fire. Where others slept, Vaelith listened—to soils, to stones, to the small sighs the world makes when it changes its mind.

Liquid Star Dawn had been whispered across the roots for weeks before the sky finally unlatched. The Dream‑Mirror Tides—a bright, crystalline wind that turned reflections into gates—were said to follow the star‑rivers and shape them into bridges. Only myth had returned from those bridges, myth and the occasional traveler who came back with a new shadow, or none at all. Vaelith had been chosen to follow the first, brightest stream to its fount and bring back a draught for the sleeping Crown Titan far below the mycelial cathedrals. The Titan was the island’s dreamer; without its dreaming, forests would forget their own names and wind would forget to be kind.

Vaelith wore a mantle of night‑ferns and a belt woven of moon‑vine. On her palms, her filaments unfurled into soft cilia, quick to taste the air for changes. Slung over one shoulder was a lattice instrument called a chronophore, grown from the ribs of ancient shelf‑mushrooms; it did not measure time, but angles of possibility, the way a compass measures north. The chronophore rattled gently as the first star‑threads pooled into a shallow, shining river across the mushroom clearing.

A silhouette lifted from the far side of the grove, taller than any stag, more delicate than any deer. Its antlers were a choir of intricate loops; its face was a mask of obsidian facets reflecting a horizon no one could presently see.

“Treadlight,” Vaelith greeted, dipping her head.

The horned being bowed, and its many eyes blinked in slow sequence, like a constellation shuttering. Treadlight was an Aether Cervid, a creature of the Dream‑Mirror Tides, summoned by the promise of Liquid Star Dawn. Its hooves did not touch earth; they visited it.

Continues on the website.


ಥ_ಥ
Merch Shop : https://grass-patch-bum-shop.fourthwall.com
o(*^＠^*)o
https://open.spotify.com/artist/3q0KcTUD3hmRdi1SUWd6VL
https://grasspatchbum.bandcamp.com/
https://grasspatchbum.com/
ㄟ(≧◇≦)ㄏ
Support the tunes:
https://paypal.me/grasspatchbum


#techno #trippyvisuals #technomusic #visualizer #undergroundtechno #musicvisualizer #4kvideo #4kvisuals #psychedelicvisuals #peaktimetechno #hypnotictechno #drivingtechno #melodictechno #aimusicvideo

Liquid Star Dawn ][ Trippy Video on YouTube

made on the fly 

i dont own the music i mix so go show love to the og artist
-Mha iri - Acid
-Nelly Furtado - Promiscuous (FKD Remix)

promiscuous remix

made this accidently while fucking around but it was good so had to record it

i dont own the tracks i mix so go show love to the og artist
-Power of Acid
-Luis M - Aztec
-Max Styler - Lights Out

aztec acid

Music video : https://youtu.be/FlnCfGS7dAA

Hard techno + schranz surge—peak‑time energy and hypnotic groove collide.
Warehouse‑ready: acid flashes, industrial grit, rolling bass, 4AM tension.
Cinematic rave trip—hardgroove swing and laser‑edged kicks all the way.

Stream / download / buy ➜
(●'◡'●)
https://music.apple.com/us/artist/grass-patch-bum/1596136340
(❁´◡`❁)
https://soundcloud.com/grasspatchbum
☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆


The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
I. The Valley of Needles and Nebulae

The valley did not possess a sky so much as it wore one—like a mantle stitched from night and fossilized lightning. There, mountains grew as spirals, unfurling like ammonites that had learned the grammar of distance. Between them unrolled a plain of obsidian grass, each blade the height of a knight’s fingerbone and sharp enough to cut a breeze. Among the grass rose gardens of mushrooms whose caps glowed with psilocybin‑cool luminescence, swelling and shrinking as though the land itself were breathing. The air shimmered with prismatic latticework, the kind of crystalline geometry the old mages called LSD frost: not a substance, but a behavior of space when it remembered how to speak in angles.

From the far lip of the valley, a figure descended—tall, limber, and jointed like a cathedral. A crown of thornlike antlers curved from their brow, clear as frozen starlight. The skin beneath was night poured over basalt, veined with faint mycelial fire. Their eyes were two small nebulae, each laced with silent storms. This was Veyra of the Hollow Constellations, Thornbearer‑designate, though no coronation had yet bound the title to their name.

Veyra’s cloak whispered as it moved, stitched from comet dust and the lensing of gravity. Around Veyra’s ankles flowed a low tide of spores, soft as fog. They did not carry weapons. What lay ahead was not a war but an agreement older than war—older, some said, than the first thought the universe ever had about edge and center.

The valley’s gate was a living thing grown of stone and hyphae. It woke as Veyra approached, its arch unfurling in segments like a thornless jaw. Runes climbed across its face, rearranging themselves as if embarrassed by old spelling mistakes. Beneath the arch the air deepened to a dream. Veyra placed a palm against the gate and felt it taste the lines of their hand: the cool curiosity of limestone, the slow joy of mycelium, the seriousness of granite. The gate found Veyra true. It opened enough for a sun to pass, though only starlight slipped through.

Beyond the gate there was a bridge, but not one that any empire would have built. It spiraled upward—an amber helix woven from fossil light and the memory of insect wings. A hundred lantern moths, their bodies written from pale green fire, whirled around the helix and painted the air with script. Each swoop left a calligraphic ribbon that fluttered for a heartbeat before folding itself into the next ribbon, until the whole sky seemed to write a single, never‑ending word.

Veyra set a foot upon the helix. The bridge understood and answered in geometry. Every step translated weight into letters; every letter bent the helix half a degree toward the heart of an unseen star.

Above the valley’s slow breathing, the firmament gathered into a bowl. The stars were close—so close that a patient hand might stroke their bark. 

Continues on the website.


ಥ_ಥ
Merch Shop : https://grass-patch-bum-shop.fourthwall.com
o(*^＠^*)o
https://open.spotify.com/artist/3q0KcTUD3hmRdi1SUWd6VL
https://grasspatchbum.bandcamp.com/
https://grasspatchbum.com/
ㄟ(≧◇≦)ㄏ
Support the tunes:
https://paypal.me/grasspatchbum

#techno  #hardtechno  #schranz  #hardgroove #acidtechno  #industrialtechno  #peaktimetechno  #neorave  #warehouse  #aimusicvideo

Thornstar Coronation ~ Video on Youtube

DJ/Producer. Being a DJ is such a rush, being behind the decks and seeing the crowd jumping and dancing. I started back in 96, played all over New England and  beyond, and have shared the stage with some of the best. 

Welcome to Don Tricera's SoundCloud! 🎶

Hey there, music enthusiasts! 👋 I'm Max, a newcomer to the world of music production, passionately diving into the art of creating beats and melodies.

🎹 Currently in the exciting phase of self-discovery and experimentation, each track is a unique expression of my evolving sound. 🚀 Join me on this incredible journey of musical exploration, where every note and beat is a step towards my artistic vision.

🔊 I believe in the power of sharing experiences through music, and I'm thrilled to share my creations with you all. Whether you're into laid-back vibes or energetic rhythms, there's something here for everyone.

🌟 Your feedback and support mean the world to me as I navigate this path of musical self-realization. So, hit play, explore, and let's vibe together!

📧 For collaborations, inquiries, or just to say hello, feel free to drop me a message. Let's connect and create something amazing!

Thanks for being part of this exciting chapter. 🎵✨

Original name was ignore this account BTW
ALSO i dont care if you use my songs in a game or anything else

Aprendiz de Dj autodidacta, todavía no me atrevo con la producción. Pero poco a poco van saliendo las cosas 🥷⛩️🍃

sun lempi lähiö dj

i touched a deck for the first time at the start of october 2025     so im only getting better as time goes on :)

!!feel free to remix and re-upload as long as you give credit!!
(i dont own the music i mix so go show love to the og artists!)

My artist name is Eternal Sunset.  I enjoy creating music in several favorite genres: Glitch/IDM, Drum'n'bass/Jungle, Breakcore, Ambient, Electro-IDM, Acid-House, Hip-hop/Rap instrumentals.
My discography is on: http://eternal8bit.cba.pl/
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Influences: Squarepusher, Photek, Kettel, Telefon Tel Aviv, Aphex Twin, Clark, The Prodigy, The Flashbulb, Venetian Snares, Kid 606, Xela/Yasume, Ebola, Sci‑Clone, Robert Miles, AOKI Takamasa, Autechre, Hecq, Future sound of London, Biosphere, and many more
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I have second profile on soundcloud with nintendo style chiptunes: http://soundcloud.com/8-bitchintendo

Dig the tunes? Check out trippy music videos: https://www.youtube.com/@grasspatchbum

Website or Instagram for booking.

Need change - going into the depths.

Techno, Trance, Psytech, Psytrance, and other liquid psychedelic music is where I'm the happiest but I do love a lot of Latin, Tribal, Trip Hop, Lofi, Chillhop so occasionally I'll release something off-beat.

------ Past-Tense Shenanigans ------

Born in the dust-filled vibes of a ‘90s apartment, Grass Patch Bum started spinning records back when vinyl was king and internet cafes were revolutionary. Armed with a crate of vinyl, Grass Patch Bum dived headfirst into underground raves and sweaty house parties, learning the art of blending beats on turntables and (eventually) the "futuristic" CDJs. But the journey didn't stop there.

After taking a hiatus to dive into the world of FL Studio and dissect the mechanics of production, Grass Patch Bum came back stronger, with a repertoire of original sounds and the technical chops to match. Fast forward, and they've turned dancefloors upside down from Thailand to Vietnam, Bali to the heart of Europe. Now, powered by Ableton Live and a creative arsenal that refuses to stay in one genre, Grass Patch Bum weaves sonic journeys that blend groove, grit, and just a sprinkle of nostalgia for the good ol' days.

Catch him live for a taste of nostalgia, modern beats, Latin grooves, electronic melodies, and a wide range of liquid sounds. Whether it's a tropical beach in Thailand or an underground club in Berlin, Grass Patch Bum brings thems booty movements like no other.

New tracks tagged #ACID-TECHNO