The file is already open on the desk.
Pages marked, corners bent, stains on the paper.
Each note written in a different hand.
No names, only numbers.
Every margin carries a date, sometimes a time.
Lines are crossed out, replaced, crossed again.
The weight suggests years of observation.
A single page is missing, deliberately.
Questions repeat, always in the same order.
Answers never appear, only annotations.
One photograph is blurred, left that way on purpose.
Silences are catalogued as evidence.
Pauses are described in red ink.
Contradictions are underlined twice.
Empty spaces are treated as information.
Every file expands when resistance is measured.
Every correction becomes another entry.
The file does not shrink, it accumulates.
The file does not close, it waits.
The file is the only witness that never forgets.

Your file

The entire sound is in my hands. I write cyber poetry, produce, and compose every track ready for Immersive 3D. Every beat is crafted for spatial and next-gen headphones.
Intimate lyrics, total immersion, every track.

For 30 years I kept unfinished demos to myself, never letting them out. Now I finish what I start and release it the moment it’s alive.

I use every tool available — human or machine — as an instrument.
Technology doesn’t replace creativity. It expands it.

𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼

Your file

Terminalose