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Put on headphones—this techno spiral will melt reality in under 4 min.
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Hex Garden Pulse
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Page 1 — The First Pulse: Breathing Green
On the eighth night after the rain, the Hex Garden woke.

It began with a tremor you could feel only in the marrow of your teeth: a sub-audible throb that rearranged dew into concentric rings. Within the garden’s honeycomb beds, six-sided blossoms opened like emerald mouths, exhaling spores that glittered in the starlight. Every spore carried a heartbeat; every heartbeat joined a choir. By midnight the soil itself blinked phosphorescent, mapping out arteries and capillaries that criss-crossed the clearing with impossible geometry.

Kess, a cartographer of mythical things, crouched at the perimeter. She’d come seeking the rumored “pulseflower,” a myth her guild filed under hallucinatory folklore, unverified. The rhythmic glow dragged her forward anyway. As her boots crossed the boundary, the garden sighed—a warm, mossy hush—and the first pulse struck her chest like a soft drum mallet. Color bled from the world, re-painting itself in gradients of lime and ultraviolet. Somewhere beyond normal sight, a door hinged open.

Kess tasted copper, tasted distant thunder. Then the ground folded under her—neither trap nor quake but an invitation—and she sank into shimmering loam without leaving a hole behind.

Page 2 — The Second Pulse: Liquid Mirrors & Violet Jets
Gravity loosened its leash. Kess floated through a vertical tunnel lined with mirrors that pulsed to the tempo of her own racing heart. Each reflection lagged a half-beat, blinking multiple versions of her in and out of existence. When she exhaled, the mirrors rippled like pond water, revealing a horizon of amethyst vapor and silver jets screaming above a fractal sea.

She landed—light as a dream—on a crystalline skimmer. Three figureheads stood at the helm: tall, faceless shapes wrapped in cloaks stitched from living static. They spoke without tongues, projecting glyphs of lilac fire that translated straight into her synapses: We are the Flux Navigators. Ride, and know the next pulse.
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Continues on the website: https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/06/29/hex-garden-pulse/

Hex Garden Pulse

First ever b2b session between two techno minds with a shared vision: dark, relentless grooves and high-speed energy. From Mutual Rytm to Sway to Figure – pure fire from start to finish.
No talking, no trends – just music.

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Full tracklist below.


TRACKLIST SHORTMIX 104 BY BENJAMIN STAHL B2B OPENEND23

01. MARCO BAILEY - DYSTOPIA (ORIGINAL MIX) - LABEL: MATERIA  
02. CHRIS LIEBING - KAIZEN (ORIGINAL MIX)  
03. DJ PLANT TEXTURE - WORMHOLE (ORIGINAL MIX) - LABEL: MUTUAL RYTM  
04. VINICIUS HONORIO, THEO N - ENDLESS LOVE (HARDSPACE, LEN FAKI REMIX)  
05. UNCERTAIN - GENERATE (ORIGINAL MIX) - LABEL: INTEC  
06. PAN-POT - AERO (EXTENDED WAREHOUSE MIX)  
07. ANTONIO GALANT - THE FIRST (ORIGINAL MIX) - LABEL: M4RLOW RECORDS  
08. PHIL BERG - KAMINO (ORIGINAL MIX)  
09. CHILDOV, T.A.M - BIPOLAR (UNIVRZ REMIX) - LABEL: THE ACID MIND CORE  
10. HECKMANN, THOMAS P. H - HIMMEL & HOELLE (ORIGINAL MIX)  
11. SEÁN CUNNINGHAM - GUNSLINGER (ORIGINAL MIX) - LABEL: SWAY  
12. RAMON TAPIA - SUPERSTITION (ORIGINAL MIX)  
13. THE SOUTHERN - DON'T MAKE ME LAUGH (ORIGINAL MIX) - LABEL: CONTEMPO  
14. DAVID MEISER - SUPERSTITION  
15. BROKEN ROBOT - ANATIS (ORIGINAL MIX) - LABEL: PROSPECT RECORDS  
16. DAVID MEISER - DANCE. MOVE. REPEAT. (ORIGINAL MIX)  
17. LEN FAKI - ZIG ZAG (VERSION) - LABEL: FIGURE  
18. MAURO PICOTTO - UNDERGROUND / BAGUETTE (UNDERGROUND)  
19. DAVID MEISER - GENERATION ANTHEMS (ORIGINAL MIX)  
20. OBSCURE SHAPE - REBORN IDENTITY (DJ RUSH REMIX)

Shortmix 104

Youtube

Warehouse‑grade hard techno—bioluminal, hypnotic, relentless. Enter the helix.
Fast, industrial, trippy—ride the bioluminal hard techno corridor.
Peak‑time energy, rumble bass, zero mercy. Step into the Oracle.
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Neo rave sci‑fi visuals with ruthless hard techno drive.
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Helix of the Bioluminal Oracle
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The Story
Prologue — The Color That Learns Your Name

On the far side of a drowned continent, a river of mirror-liquid runs uphill into the clouds. It threads a trench through the sky and vanishes into an angle no map allows—an ongoing mistake in the geometry of weather. Locals call it the Chromatic Torrent. At night, it sheds feathers of light that fall like snow and melt into color without leaving the ground wet.

The courier arrives alone: a silhouette wrapped in a midnight coat that collects stray glints like rain. Their skiff waits behind them, folded to a blade of light under the quay, ribs ticking softly as if remembering the ocean. The courier closes a hand around a coin of pale fire and the coin grows lighter, as if it recognizes the palm. It is a permit and a promise, a round door that fits any lock that isn’t made of metal.

The wind smells of iron and cloves and wet stone. Above, the Torrent leans out of the sky like a muscle flexing, then loosens, then flexes again. Color runs within it in shifting lanes: indigo, teal, a little magenta heat, turned by some gravity that doesn’t belong to the world.

To the east: a forest of mushroom pylons rises from salt fog, the caps broad as amphitheaters, the stems braided with cables of living hyphae that carry light as if it were water. In that forest stands the one the courier has come to find: the Bioluminal Oracle, the ancient humanoid mushroom tree. It is older than the city, which is older than the sky in its current mood. When it moves—slow, slower—the fog reads the gesture and translates it into attention. The courier breathes once to count their ribs, then starts walking.

No one walks out to the Torrent without first speaking to the Oracle. If you try, the river will look away. That is how people drown in dry air.

I — City Quay, and a Coin That Warms Like a Small Moon

Boardwalks hold to the shore with brass teeth; underfoot, gullies of shadow. Traders have packed away their night markets, leaving the quay smelling of smoked kelp and engine perfume. The courier slides between shuttered kiosks until the buildings thin and the quay becomes a tongue of basalt licking the fog.

The coin grows warm, and with it, the world clarifies. On the basalt, faint as breath on glass, a lattice of DMT filament unfurls, lines intersecting in patient thirty-degree rhymes, leading east toward the mushroom pylons. Each joint glows like a pinprick star. When the courier steps on the lattice, the lines brighten. There is no sound, yet the bones of the quay vibrate minimally, as if acknowledging a password.

A shape crosses above—no bird, not a craft. A figure made of ovals of light connected by corridors, a strolling bureau of weather examining its paperwork. The courier keeps moving.

They do not carry weapons. There’s nothing to fight out here that knows what a weapon is.

Continues on the website:
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/08/15/helix-of-the-bioluminal-oracle/

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Helix of the Bioluminal Oracle - Enter the Oracle @ YouTube

Fast, raw, relentless—hardgroove meets schranz in a warehouse storm.
Underground hard techno built for late nights and void‑black rooms.
Pure drive: fast techno, dark bass, hypnotic momentum.
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From tunnel focus to full send—peak‑time energy unlocked.
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Chromatic Torrent Drift
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The Story
They call you Riftwalker because you learned a new way to keep a promise.

Before that, you were another night-shift body wandering fluorescent hallways that hummed even when the power was out, mopping the same square of floor because it was easier than believing the world wanted anything from you. Then the first door winked where there had never been a door—between an ice machine and a vending unit that sold nothing but grape soda—and the air on the other side wore a smell like rain rehearsing. You stepped through with the reflex of someone too tired to be frightened and discovered a geography that had been waiting for the exact shape of your footfall.

You learned the strange keys that coax reality’s seams to loosen: powders that fold time into soft pleats; cactus buttons that remember constellations older than law; mushrooms that breathe to each other under city pavement, trading gossip through hair-fine roots. You learned the weight of a message in your pocket when it’s more than paper—when it’s an embryo of possibility, warm with its own opinion. And you learned the rule that matters: doors open outward only if you have something to give. The world is not a charity; it is a barter.

Tonight, your phone chimes without lighting up. The text is only a hand-drawn spiral. That’s how they ask. You put on the coat with the lining you stitched yourself, the one that looks ordinary to the ordinary—thread the color of rainwater, buttons cut from a mirror that refuses to show strangers. You take the stairs. The stairwell lengthens. Stairs become corridor; concrete becomes linoleum that’s too clean to be honest. There’s the clock you never trust and vents that exhale lazy snow. Spores drift out and land on your sleeve. Under each one is a coordinate you won’t recall when you wake.

The message finds you the way messages always do: the corridor turns slightly wrong, like a book misprinted by an enthusiastic god, and a door stands where nothing stood five nights ago. You open it. Not because you believe yourself chosen—because you are practiced at saying yes before doubt can invent a reason to be clever.

Inside is a room that refuses to be a room. The floor is the idea of floor. The walls keep changing their minds. At the center, on a table that only has three legs because it doesn’t need four, something beats in a rhythm that will not be named. A puff of air touches your hand: not breath, not wind. It is recognition. The message is no envelope. It is a palm-sized egg of warm blue glass, and when it touches your skin, your pulse revises itself to meet its tempo. A mark appears on your wrist, thin as spider silk, a ring that wasn’t there a second ago. The more you look at it, the more it looks back. “All right,” you say to nobody in particular. “I’ll carry you.”

Continues on the website:
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/08/14/chromatic-torrent-drift/

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Chromatic Torrent Drift - Psychedelic Visuals @ YouTube

Saturday bangers babay!
A little psychedelia for yah peepers my peoples! 😘💚
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Neo rave sci‑fi visuals with ruthless hard techno drive.
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Helix of the Bioluminal Oracle
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Keep in touch with latest releases:
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Trippy Music Video : https://youtu.be/tTh2kXk3rT0
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There's a STORY!!! ;)
I — The Map That Wasn’t a Map

You arrive where the atlas stops pretending it knows anything.

Beyond the ridge, the land is a black opal plain veined with cobalt veins that hum in no wind. A hush sits on it the way frost sits on grass—delicate, temporary, sacred if you move gently enough. The dew here is wrong in the way a dream is wrong: each bead is too round, too steady, too awake. They don’t roll or soak in. They hold. They wait.

You kneel and the beads reflect not your face but diagrams—hexes nested in hexes, spirals that refuse to end, angles that feel like numbers you once knew. The longer you look, the more they join: a filament touches a filament, and there’s a glow passing between them like the smallest current. It is not water. It is a statement.

The old story said the Oracle grows where dew refuses to be only dew.

You rise, dust the grit from your palms, and walk without choosing a direction. The plain chooses for you. Lines of cold light thread from bead to bead like veins answering a heartbeat. The geometry doesn’t push, it persuades, shaping your steps, showing paths only as you take them. The horizon stays perfectly level, the sky a long bruise of cobalt with a single pale star pinned in the wrong place. Your breath fogs and then the fog arranges itself into numerals you cannot read and then dissolves. It’s almost kind, the way this place tells you: you are in the presence of a very patient intelligence.

When you feel it—before you see it—the hair along your arms rises not from fear but from recognition. As if a song you used to know finds your throat from the outside.

And then you see the Oracle.

II — The Humanoid That Was Also a Tree

It towers but does not loom. A torso of varnished bark with shoulders braided out of roots, hips heavy with the memory of storms. The arms bend the way branches bend, and where hands should be, the wood splits into filigreed fronds—their undersides ribbed with gill-like lamellae that pulse with bioluminescence. The face is not a face, not really, but a mask of old growth and lichen with hollows where eyes should be; inside those hollows slow constellations wheel like watch gears. A crown of fruiting bodies bursts from the skull and then recedes, then blooms again in a long, tidal breath, spores drifting like snow that has learned how to glow.

Its feet are not feet, they are a root-crown woven into the plain, plugged into the dew like a nerve into a brain.

You do not speak. You bring your question the way you were taught to carry flame—cupped, stubborn against the wind. The question is old and small enough to be dangerous: what am I for?


Continues on the website: https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/08/16/cobalt-dewfall-geometry/

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Cobalt Dewfall Geometry - Mushroom Visualizer @ YouTube

Hard techno warehouse energy—drop in now and ride the storm.
Peak‑time kicks, industrial grit—enter the tunnel.
Acid‑laced hard techno for the 4AM warehouse.
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Stream / download / buy ➜
Merch Shop : https://grass-patch-bum-shop.fourthwall.com
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https://soundcloud.com/grasspatchbum
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Neo rave sci‑fi visuals with ruthless hard techno drive.
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Helix of the Bioluminal Oracle
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Keep in touch with latest releases:
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https://grasspatchbum.com/
Trippy Music Video : https://youtu.be/dv56pNhrA-c
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The Story
The plain was made of black salt, a horizon of matte crystals that swallowed reflections instead of returning them. Above it hung a sky the color of cooled iron. Nothing moved, not the thin grasses fossilized in place, not the distant ribs of petrified cactus, not the oval shadows that pooled where there should have been light. The air felt thick—like a held note, like a thought someone forgot to finish.

Out of that heldness, a figure stepped.

They were not armored or robed. They carried no tools, only a glass seed cupped in both hands, small enough to hide in a fist, heavy enough to pull the shoulders down. The seed was not luminous, but light noticed it; beams bent when it passed. The traveler steadied their breath until it matched the inaudible pulse threading through the ground. When they looked up, the horizon turned by a fraction, just enough to show that all horizons here were part of a wheel.

The wheel’s center was nowhere and everywhere, but its rim—the path—ran straight ahead. The traveler started walking.

Out past the fifth step, the salt exhaled spores that did not rise or fall. They hung, counting each other, arranging themselves into a body: a lank, cathedral-shouldered mushroom being with gills inscribed in teal. Its shadow formed before its cap; then its stem curled up from the shadow’s edge, a reversed sprout. The gills flexed, and stenciled onto the air between them appeared a silent string of equations shaped like vines.

The traveler paused without fear. The equations were invitations.

The mushroom lifted its arm. Halfway through the gesture, the arm became a cactus rib, green lacquer with glints of trapped suns. The rib arched overhead and, with a soft click of geometry, multiplied into a corridor: rib upon rib, an arcade of living anatomy, each curve fitted to the next by joints that whispered when they turned. Salt slipped out of salt, forming steps that did not look like steps until the traveler placed a foot on them and the ground agreed.

A corridor of ribs and spores opened toward a darkness that was not night, and the traveler crossed the threshold.

Beneath the ribs, the air acquired weight. Droplets formed on the cactus skin and beaded, each bead holding a world full of tiny weather. Where the beads grazed one another, prisms were born—micro-faceted insects that hummed without sound and flew in quivering constellations. Columnar forms extruded from the salt like glass trees, branches interlocking in a scaffold of perfect errors. Between branches, filaments stretched into a lattice, a graph of choices the traveler hadn’t made yet.

In the prisms, the traveler’s reflection wore a dozen futures. In some, the seed had already been planted; in others, the seed was a piercing and the sky was stitched to their skin. In one, there was no traveler at all, only the seed rolling like a planet where the ribs met the plain.

Continues on the website:
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/08/18/mercury-river-protocol/

#techno #technomusic #hardtechno  #neorave  #industrialtechno  #warehouserave  #peaktime  #acidtechno  #undergroundtechno  #4kvisuals

Mercury River Protocol - Psy Visuals on YouTube

Warehouse‑grade hard techno pressure; peak‑time energy, hypnotic drive.
Schranz edge at 136 BPM—rolling subs, iron kicks, relentless momentum.
Peak‑time assault; raw, deep & hypnotic textures collide.
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Underground tunnel energy—driving techno for maximum lift.
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White Field Aperture
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Trippy Music Video : https://youtu.be/1inW88pif3w
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The Story
1 — Threshold: The Mirror That Drinks the Sky

The desert had learned how to be quiet. Black salt dunes laid their scales to the horizon; the wind went around them like a respectful rumor. I walked until the ground lost the habit of footprints and turned to mirror—not glass, not water, something that behaved like both until you asked it to choose. When I touched it, my fingers sank into a ketamine hush, the temperature of a held breath. The sky above me slipped downward, pooling at my feet, and the mirror took the sun into itself as easily as a coin into a sleeve.

“State your vector,” said a voice with the pleasant bluntness of machinery that also dreams.

I looked up. The ship had been a shimmer in peripheral vision; now it chose to exist. Ribs of spore-glass unfurled like the gills of an enormous bioluminescent mushroom, a vessel grown rather than built. Patterns pulsed beneath its skin—teal and cobalt, the color logic of an ocean that had never seen water. On its prow: a thin seam of light, smiling.

“Inside,” the ship said, as if there were no other sensible direction. “Name me and we’ll move.”

“If I name you, do you become true?” I asked.

“Everything is already true,” it replied. “Names are just handles to carry it by.”

I touched the seam and said, “Aperture.” The word fit its hull the way a right word fits a wrong silence. The mirror accepted our weight as if we were a memory returning to where it had been recorded. The world tipped, rotated—not falling but refracting—and the desert’s heat turned to the cool inner-weather of deep caves.

The hull closed around me, a cathedral grown from hyphae and patience. Filaments stitched the air with soft LSD confetti, each mote a syllable of a grammar only light can speak. Somewhere in the Aperture’s frame, a heartbeat began—mechanical and patient, the kind of rhythm you trust without deciding to.

“Destination?” the ship asked.

“Forward,” I said, and the mirror drank us whole.

2 — Corridor of Peyote Suns

Forward was a river of mercury that couldn’t decide between surface and volume. It braided under a ceiling of peyote suns, each one a hex of luminous scars that re-inked themselves as you watched. Desert bones turned to architecture: arches of white stone that remembered having been whale ribs. We slid beneath them like a secret trying to become a law.

Continues on the website:
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/08/19/white-field-aperture/

#techno  #technomusic  #hardtechno  #schranz  #industrialtechno  #warehousetechno  #peaktimetechno  #undergroundtechno  #rave  #visualizer

White Field Aperture - Psy Music Video @ YouTube

Trippy 4K Techno Experience!
Hypnotic warehouse drive—glass seed pulses, map hums back.
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Warehouse visualizer: teal haze, sunflower halos, 123 BPM.
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Prologue: The City That Forgot Its Corners

The city had no right angles anymore. Years of slow migration in its own sleep had rounded every edge into a soft, treacherous kindness. Streets drooped like ribbons. Towers leaned in to hear each other breathe. At night, light pooled in bowls and refused to climb the walls. People blamed the damp, or the age of foundations, or the recent habit the wind had of returning lost words.

Sen walked through it with the steady patience of someone who carried a task heavier than their shadow. Their satchel held a glass seed—smooth, thumb-sized, faintly warm—taken from a mineral library deep under the old quay. The librarians had warned that it wasn’t a seed at all, but an organ, the kind you could add to a place in order to give it a new sense. “Don’t plant it in soil,” they’d said. “Plant it in a problem.”

The city’s problem was the same every city kept hidden: it had forgotten where it ended. Some nights its borders drifted so far that fog felt foreign; some mornings the outer districts woke up looking at mountains that weren’t on any chart. The mayor had asked for better fences. Sen, a cartographer too stubborn for fences, had asked for the seed.

On the night that began the end of drifting, the seed woke. Not with light, not with sound, but with vibration—a low, velvet hum that traveled up Sen’s bones and mapped out a direction behind the ears. When Sen faced that way, the hum smoothed. When they turned aside, it rasped. That was how Sen knew the thing was a map: it cared when they cheated.

The seed’s hum pulled them through the city’s softened streets to a battered iron wicket that had never opened for anyone sober. Beyond it lay a scar of land no one managed to name—the Orchard of Glass to some, the Prism Orchard to those who liked their danger with geometry—the place where trees grew mirrors and fruit pretended to be planets. At the orchard’s edge, the air carried the flavor of cold coin and rainwater under stone. Mushrooms at the roots of the iron fence opened teal gills and breathed out a pause, like a door deciding whether to be a door.

Sen set the glass seed on their palm. It rolled toward the fence and pressed itself against the iron. The hum pressured Sen’s ribs. The wicket sighed and forgot that it had ever been locked.

“Show me,” Sen said to no one and to the seed and to the orchard. The hum approved.

They stepped through.

I — Threshold Sap

Inside, the orchard’s darkness was organized. The trunks were columns. The leaves were ruled lines. Moss laid out a grid with small, amber nodes, and every so often one node blinked and sent a ripple through its neighbors until the whole mat had agreed on something quiet.

Continues on the website: https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/09/01/a-map-that-hums-back/

#techno  #musicvideo  #trippyvisuals  #technomusic  #visualizer  #undergroundtechno  #musicvisualizer  #melodictechno   #4kvideo  #4kvisuals  #psychedelicvisuals4k

A Map That Hums Back | Psychedelic Music Video @ 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.

(●'◡'●)
Stream / download / buy ➜
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https://music.apple.com/us/artist/grass-patch-bum/1596136340
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ᓚᘏᗢ


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

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.

Continues on the website.


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Merch Shop : https://grass-patch-bum-shop.fourthwall.com
o(*^＠^*)o
https://open.spotify.com/artist/3q0KcTUD3hmRdi1SUWd6VL
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https://grasspatchbum.com/
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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

Head of BRB Digital
All releases on Bandcamp: https://benjaminstahl.bandcamp.com/
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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 #warehouse-techno