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.

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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.

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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.

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The Ship That Grew a Forest | Music Video on YouTube

Music video : https://youtu.be/OcXDg9glV04

Peak‑time techno with rolling bass and a trance‑kissed lift.
Hypnotic lines, heavy kick—deep warehouse pressure.
Dark to euphoric in one ascent—driving melodic techno.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
The night forest wore the moon like a needle. Pale light stitched from branch to branch, fastening leaf to leaf, turning dew into a lace of cold fire. Beneath that careful seamwork stood a traveler who was not born but assembled—woven out of comet silk, lark‑black shadow, and the quiet intelligence of mycelium. The traveler’s name was Vaelith, though names here were less like labels and more like roots: buried, drinking deep, feeding leaves farther away than anyone could see.

Vaelith’s eyes were slow spirals of silver, rotating once for yes, twice for no, and three times when questions were too complex for a single answer. A braid of pale moss lay across their shoulder; it pulsed softly, an extra heart given by the understory. From the traveler’s waist hung an oval shard of fused stardust—meteor glass—which warmed whenever a path wanted to be found.

That night the glass began to thrum like a low tide in the bones. The shard lifted, not by string or charm but by fondness, and spread a hairline beam across the leaf litter. The light was thin and precise, like a thread the moon had misplaced and now asked Vaelith to return.

They stepped forward. The mossy braid stirred, tasting the air, and the forest answered by re‑arranging itself with hospitality: roots angled to make steps; mushrooms turned their luminous caps to guide; ferns bowed in a rustle that meant we’ve been expecting you. Distant trunks clicked together the way stones do after speech, and the meteor glass kept humming.

As Vaelith walked, soft lanterns rose—small colonies of caps with gills that glowed a psilocybin blue, then shifted into LSD‑bright filaments that crossed the trail like sutures in living skin. The threads did not tie anything down; they held it in a promise. Overhead, branches met in arcs that had never seen architecture and yet produced it, a natural vault where owls wore masks of DMT‑geometry, feather‑tips repeating the same perfect triangle, smaller and smaller, until the pattern fell inward like a whisper.

A figure waited at the mouth of the first clearing: humanoid in the way a tree is humanoid only when the wind persuades it. Limbs were slender cambium, veneer polished by moonlight. Eyes: two slow pools of resin. Antlers: not antlers, but growing scrolls of polished bark carved by termites into filigree. It bowed with the patience of old rainfall.

“Loom‑kin,” Vaelith said, their voice a weave of low breath and the click of beetle shells. The resin eyes brightened.

“I am Soresyn of the Canopy, tender to the seam that holds this world together,” the being said. “The moon has placed thread in your keeping. Something is unraveling beyond my reach.”

The meteor glass hummed harder. Vaelith lifted it, and inside the shard swam a map that wasn’t a map—not inked lines but living filaments drifting as if underwater. They nudged one, and it laid itself along a path only the forest could see.

“Speak of the unraveling,” Vaelith said.

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Threaded by Moon and Moss // Music Video @ YouTube

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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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.

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Hypnotic (Techno) (28-10-2025)

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.

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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. 

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Thornstar Coronation ~ Video on Youtube

Music video : https://youtu.be/B7FtYZ7AfEU

Melodic peak time techno trip through a dark fantasy mycelium realm.
Dark psychedelic techno journey with cinematic sci‑fi visuals.
Underground melodic techno soundtrack for your next rave night.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
Prologue – The Prismfold

The realm was sick in a beautiful way.

Across the Prismfold, reality no longer held still. Horizons rippled like liquid stained glass. Mountains folded inward into impossible angles, then unfolded into forests of crystal, then dissolved into drifting clouds of symbols before they remembered they were mountains again.

Once, this constant changing had a pattern. Every shift followed invisible rules, watched over by ancient beings known only as the Kaleidoscopic Gatekeepers. They sat at the passageways between domains, steering the flows of colour, form, and meaning so that travellers could cross without being shredded into nonsense.

But the pattern was slipping.

Gates misfired. Pathways closed halfway through. Travellers stepped out of one domain and never quite arrived in another, suspended as trembling mosaics in the empty between. The Prismfold was filling with half-finished thoughts.

In a pocket of relative stillness stood a lone figure.

They were not human. They were Shardborn—a tall, lithe humanoid shape composed of overlapping fragments of translucent crystal. Each shard reflected a different sky, a different landscape, a different version of themself. Their name was Kethriel, though in some shards they also answered to other names they had never spoken aloud.

Where a heart should be, Kethriel carried a Liminal Core: a slow-turning knot of mycelial roots and prisms, pulsing faintly with soft ultraviolet. When the Core warmed, a gate was near. When it burned, reality itself wanted something.

Tonight, it burned.

The air around Kethriel shimmered, and the ground beneath their bare crystal feet shifted from solid stone to a glowing mesh of bioluminescent mycelium. The threads pulsed in intricate patterns, like a living circuit board grown from psilocybin-soaked roots. Mushroom towers rose in the distance—giants with caps like stained-glass domes, breathing out glowing spores that floated in patient spirals.

Kethriel watched as lines of neon light traced themselves through the mycelial net, converging into intricate sigils. Each sigil resembled a tiny square of artwork, dots and swirls and animal-less constellations laid out in precise grids—as if the world were printing its own enormous, animated sheets of LSD-like designs underground.

At the center of those patterns, a ring of shifting triangles opened, not downward but inward.

A gate.

The stories said the Kaleidoscopic Gatekeepers had fallen silent.

Kethriel knew, with a certainty that resonated all the way into their Liminal Core, that if they stepped into that ring, silence would end.

One way or another.

They stepped forward.

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Kaleidoscopic Gatekeepers | Video On YouTube

Music Video : https://youtu.be/NpjYHjo6P3I

Get lost in a dark, hypnotic techno realm where dawn rises upside down.
Peak time techno meets psychedelic fantasy in a story‑driven visual trip.
Hypnotic warehouse rhythms, glowing mushroom worlds and inverted sunrise.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
I. The Dusk That Would Not End

The world of Lurith had forgotten what a sunrise looked like.

For ages uncounted, the sky had been a permanent twilight: a bruised gradient of violet and deep indigo, stitched with slow‑moving nebulae and drifting mushroom constellations. Towering fungal forests grew from floating islands of stone, their caps shimmering with bioluminescent glyphs that crawled like living script. Rivers of pale light flowed upward instead of down, vanishing into the dark clouds.

In this dusk‑locked realm walked Aelthren.

Aelthren was not human—no such thing existed in Lurith. Their body was tall and slender, woven from translucent, opalescent fibers like spun moonlight. Beneath their skin, strands of softly glowing mycelium pulsed in slow patterns, tracing a living constellation through their limbs and chest. Where a face should have been, there was an ever‑shifting mask of geometry: triangles and hexagons sliding over one another, forming eyes of amber light, a mouth when speech was needed, then dissolving back into fractal stillness.

From their shoulders sprouted two sweeping crests of crystal feathers, thin as glass and tinted with faint psychedelic colors—pink like a thinking cloud, green like the reflection of an emerald forest in moving water. When Aelthren moved, the feathers chimed faintly, and spores of glittering dust drifted from their edges, curling through the air like lazy comets.

They wandered the Dusklands with a single memory carved into their mind: a rumor, passed in flickers of thought from luminous beast to drifting spirit.

Somewhere, hidden beyond the ordinary folds of Lurith, there was a place called the Chamber of Inverted Dawn—a chamber where sunrise did not break over the horizon, but fell inward, like water pouring into a well. It was said that the last true dawn had been caught there, turned inside out, and the world had stayed twilight ever since.

Aelthren did not know why the memory remained when others had been erased, but whenever they closed their eyes, they saw it: a vast vault of stone, the sky on its floor, and a sun rising downward.

So they walked, and the Dusklands watched.

II. The Procession of Fractal Beasts

On the thirty‑third night‑that‑was‑not‑night, the sky changed.

Three mirror comets tore through the twilight, leaving behind tails of liquid chrome that dripped in slow motion across the vault of the world. Each comet was a faceted tetrahedron, its surface etched in tiny, precise symbols like the notes of an impossibly complex equation. Where their trails intersected, a sigil formed—a blazing glyph in the clouds shaped like a circle pierced by a downward arrow.

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

Chamber of Inverted Dawn -|- Music Video @ YouTube

tomfoolery mixes, because that's the point!

on wednesdays we mix techno 01 | hotspice

Discover the Way, what electronic Music is!  If you like my mixes, I would be happy if you supported me as a follower on www.twitch.com/dj_nordic

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 #Hypnotic-techno