I’m at that place / in this space / where the floor gives way  
And the air’s got taste like a burnt soufflé  
Ten more minutes—shove it all in a bag  
Marching blind into the latest red flag  
Can’t track time but the calls still come  
Telemarketers buzz like bees on the run  
And the fire chief rings like a ghost on repeat—  

"Hi Bob. Good to hear from ya."  

Don’t wanna change my number (click)  
Don’t wanna pay the back bill (tick)  
Don’t wanna fake thrill climbing that hill  
But the peak skids sideways / thrill turns chill  
Like maybe / just maybe / my brain don’t play  
By the same dumb rules that you rehearse all day  
Yeah—yeah—yeah—yeah—wait—  

I’m runnin’ these tight-tight circles  
Suckin’ up to folks who like commercials  
You wouldn’t write this, nah, you write polite  
Brand-safe angst with a trademarked bite  
You like donuts  
(everybody likes donuts)  
It’s digestible  
It’s forgettable  
But music’s risk, or maybe sweat  
Somethin’ you do when you ain’t dead yet  

Maybe it’s cliché all the way down  
Echoes of echoes and a line about towns  
Maybe they’re right—  
Yeah, maybe they’re right  
And maybe I laugh when I get “sirred” tonight  

But maybe they’re wrong in stereo  
Maybe I’m the glitch in the morning show  
Fighting shadows / wrong sword, right hands  
Phone booth dog with a firebrand  
He’s the last in town / red vest / badge clipped  
Growls like prophecy / howls

Tight Tight Circles

I wanted to make sure that nobody would mistake this album for an attempt at pop. If you want toe tapping chart charters, this is not it. Instead, what you get with this one is heaping pile of high concept slop. It will bend your sensibilities, make you wonder about me, and yourself. 

This is an album of emotional misinformation. A lo-fi grunge ballad and a Bulgarian seduction anthem walk into a furniture store after the apocalypse—and nobody stops them. Low Effort Music is a genre-jumping fever dream held together by static electricity, dubious math, and one very judgmental poodle.

These aren’t  songs. They’re unreliable narrators, rejected soundtracks, self-aware metaphors, and doomed love letters to the void. It’s Americana after three edibles. It’s pop if pop gave up pretending. It’s Dada with a debit card.

Every track sounds like it was recorded in a different universe—but somehow, it’s all unmistakably Lynn Cole. Don’t ask how. She won’t tell you.

🎧 Listen if you like:

    Existential kazoo solos

    Static as a love language

    Math problems with commitment issues

    Songs that don’t blink first

Stick Around

Static Girl

You never see me coming  
Like a math test in July  
I'm the gum beneath your table  
And the click when the gun is—

I breathe between your headphones  
While you’re trying to rewind  
I'm the warning on the label  
But the font is way too

Boo!

I rehearsed that one for weeks  
Had a chart and a compass  
Wore a cape made out of—

Boo!

You’re flailing like a fish  
I spent three days on this moment  
You just spilled your orange—

I hide in plain pajama  
With a saucepan on my head  
I wrote treaties with your demons  
Just to jump out near your—

You thought you saw me once, yeah  
In the corner of your screen  
But it turned out it was static  
Or a message from the

Boo!

Like a wizard with no wand  
Like a mixtape for a crush  
That ends with screaming—

Boo!

You’re airborne like a chair  
I’m composing symphonies  
That start with “hey” and end

One day you’ll turn around  
And I’ll just be your roommate  
I’ll make pasta like a normal person  
And you’ll blink and I’ll be

Boo!

This one’s the final boss  
I’ve upgraded all my settings  
Added fog and blinking

Boo!

You're laughing so you win  
But deep down you were terrified  
Don’t lie I saw your—

You never see me coming  
And I’ll never plan ahead  
But if love’s not a little stupid  
Then honestly I’d rather—

You never see me coming

No algorithm for love

Caught you on a Tuesday, wrong side of a thought  
Had your coat on backwards, the story still got  
Underneath my ribcage—crack, spin, delay  
Said it's alright, I didn’t mean it that way

You left the light on in your rearview lie  
'Cause you always liked your exits dry  
Like no one's home but it's a nightly climb  
Never trust a woman...  
When she says she’s fine.  
Boom

We’re out of the mess, we made last fall  
Tore up the roots, I did it all  
But you still show up, uninvited, every day  
Like a flicker  
Just like a flicker of gray

Wrote your name in lowercase, neat and clear  
Stacked with the takeout menus, expired Marlboro gear  
Didn’t flinch, just cleared the space  
Even junk mail has its place.

We’re out of the mess, we made last fall  
Tore up the roots, I did it all  
But you still show up, uninvited, every day  
Like a flicker  
Just like a flicker of gray

Just a visit, a reference  
Just to see if it still hurts  
I keep rehearsing this indifference  
But the line comes out reversed  
I touch the doorknob with my pinky  
Like the metal might confess  
And in the mirror I feel guilty  
Even when I’m...  
Fully dressed

We’re out of the mess, we made last fall  
Tore up the roots, I did it all  
But you still show up, uninvited, every day  
Like a flicker  
Just like a flicker of gray

Just like a flicker of gray  
Just like a flicker of gray  
Just like a flicker of gray

Flicker of Gray

A song about myself

Crouton (Hidden Bonus Track)

Ще те счупя (Bongo bongo)

Nothing

I make experimental nonsense music that doesn't always sound experimental, or like nonsense. But rest assured... it is

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