A slow-burning indie electronic piece built on soft synth pulses, low-light atmospheres and that late-night, city-after-rain feeling. Minimal beats, dusky textures, and a touch of 80s melancholy give it that quiet ache I keep chasing.

Featuring Juno Wilde, whose vocal tone sits somewhere between a whisper and a warning, the track drifts into dream-pop shadows without slipping into pop polish. Moody, intimate, cinematic.

File under: midnight walks, queer longing, and everything you don’t say out loud until the lights are low

(I know) I don't

Born in 1992 and reborn in shadowed synths, Johannesburg traces the hush before upheaval. A city holding its breath. The scent of injustice rising like heat from the sand.

Minimal beats, wide night skies, and Juno Wilde’s low ember of a voice carry the story forward, not as history, but as a wound that still glows under the skin.

A memory. A warning. A place that refuses to stay silent.

Johannesburg

Can You…? wanders through the feverish edge of desire, all velvet bruises and questions no one wants to answer. The synths simmer, the rhythm stalks, and Juno Wilde slips through it with a voice that feels half prayer, half provocation.

It circles the old hunger for love, the kind that tastes like danger and hope at the same time. A quixotic little storm. Sharp, tender, and beautifully unwell.

Can you....?_

A slow-burn drift through broken lines, bruised hearts, and that strange hope that sometimes leaks through the cracks. “Wherever, whatever, have a nice day” is a bruised little postcard from the nineties, pulled from the roadside mood of My Own Private Idaho and rebuilt in the now. Kaelib and Juno Wilde lean into quiet collapse and soft resilience. A track that wanders, wonders, and never fully settles.

Wherever, whatever, have a nice day

These lyrics, written back in 1995, came out of that old, exhausting debate about whether being gay was a “choice” or something baked into your bones. The song never cared about the answer. It simply pushed back: even if it were a choice, it harms no one, and it belongs to the person living it.

There’s a darker thread running through it too. The idea of being marked, labelled, reduced to a symbol. That reference pulls from the history of people branded and punished for who they were, from queer kids in schoolyards to the brutal echoes of those marked in camps. The point was always the same: dehumanisation starts with a label.

This version is a modern rendering of an old protest written by a younger self who refused to be boxed in.

A personal choice

A reflection pulled from the shadows of early-90s Sydney, “all that is gone” sits somewhere between memory and myth. It’s a song about the men we walked past, the stories we inherited, and the things we tried to teach that never quite stuck. A slow burn about dignity, damage, and the ghosts a city creates.

Written in ’92. Revisited now.

All that is gone

A quiet storm of a song. “Blame” drifts through velvet synths and shadowed strings, letting the voice confess what politeness usually smothers. It lingers on the moment a soul finally stops rescuing another and chooses truth instead. Each line circles the wound with a kind of decadent honesty, the sort that hurts because it is beautiful. The pulse stays low, the mood stays dark, and the song moves like a midnight letter never meant to be sent. A study in betrayal, clarity, and the strange relief that arrives when you return the blame to its rightful owner.

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