Shifting Forms

Big Yes Day” came from one of those bizarrely good mornings where everything felt like it was cheering me on. I wanted to capture that surreal, silly optimism—like when your toast flies and somehow it’s a victory. It’s not deep, it’s just a celebration of weird little wins and how they stack into something joyful. The song wrote itself like a goofy poem on a trampoline. Honestly, it’s just about saying “yes” to the weird magic in everyday stuff

BIG YES DAY

YEAH, PROBABLY

GOLDEN EYES

“That feeling of living in a space—or even a life—that looks right on the outside but feels empty inside. It’s about routines, smiles, and small talk hiding something quieter and sadder underneath. I liked the idea of writing something bright and melodic that still carries a little emotional crack in the middle—like laughing with your hands shaking.”

HOUSE OF A THOUSAND KEYS

absence blooming in strange places. A sock watered like a prayer. A fridge humming with memory. Love lingering in the soft static of undone things. It’s the quiet ache of almost letting go.

GONE.

basically music for people who hallucinate

WHAT IT IS.

the soup’s talking, the fridge is DJing, and my shoes are lying to me—might as well twerk into the void and file taxes..emotionally.

MIGHT AS WELL MOVE.

iMISS ME TOO.

"folly" refers to a lack of wisdom, understanding, and moral insight, representing foolishness and a disregard for revealed truth. It's not simply a matter of intellectual deficiency, but a moral and spiritual blindness that leads to wrong choices and actions.

Folly

Glimma G. Swipe was born inside a vending machine and raised on expired coupons and glitter, riding a Roomba with LED rims through discount aisles like royalty; she doesn’t shop—she performs, collecting gadgets she doesn’t understand, gold chains that smell like cinnamon, and shoes made of pennies just because they shine—this song is her anthem, a chaotic ballet of swipes, snacks, and spiritual overdraft, where every beep of a barcode is a beat drop and every impulse buy is a power move.

Cart Full of Dream

“Yo, this that trap opera on bath salts, b—. It’s like Sesame Street got evicted and moved in wit’ the cartel. I wanted it gritty, surreal, but still bouncin’ off the wall like a broke oven door. Chickens? That’s code, bruh. Everything a metaphor — for paranoia, for pressure, for product, for power. You in the kitchen, yeah, but it ain’t no Betty Crocker sh— — it’s like Breaking Bad in a Waka Flocka video directed by Harmony Korine. Sh— loud, chaotic, but calculated. Like if the trap had a cookbook, this the audiobook version, narrated by me high as hell.”

Chickens in the Trap

your online shopping cart knows you better than your therapist! ever chased fulfillment with a credit card swipe, laughed at the absurdity of it, and still hit “checkout” anyway??

The Price of Desire

You’re in a strip mall parking lot at 11:43 p.m., eating cold fries from a crumpled bag, trunk full of crap you don’t remember buying, and for a second—just a second—you feel whole.

bye sum stuf

It’s like if your brain took a nap on a beach made of synths, and then woke up slightly embarrassed but feeling kinda amazing. The song doesn’t try to impress you—it just is, like a cat ignoring you while being awesome. It grooves, it floats, it makes you question your life for a second, then pats you on the back and lets you keep lying to yourself. You’ll like it, probably. Or not. Whatever.

TRANSITORY

microdosing at Burning Man—sleek, sweaty, and somehow emotionally unavailable. A minimalist banger for people who think too much at the club but still know how to dance like their joints are Bluetooth-connected.

JOE GLOW MODE

So I was sitting in my car… parked illegally… outside a 24-hour yoga disco smoothie bar. I was eating a sad sandwich and watching people live their best lives in neon spandex. And suddenly I thought: Why do we park our butts on couches, our dreams in storage, and our existential dread in a little compartment labeled “Monday”?

Then it hit me. Not the sandwich. The funk.

It’s about freedom, movement, and yelling “WOO!” for no reason—because if you’re not dancing like your parking meter’s expired and God is watching, are you even living?


noparkingonthedancefloor

The door you fear most is the one you’re already inside. Sometimes the escape is the entrance.

#WhateverDoorOpens #NewMusic #Psychedelic #ThisIsFine #GlitchInTheMatrix #Crunchy

WHATEVER DOOR OPENS

when your therapist cancels on you and your edible kicks in at the same time

“It’s a journey through time’s illusion, man. A mirage made of memory and madness. The sand—it whispers, it remembers. Each grain is a life, a choice, a failure we thought we buried. But it all echoes. I see the walls breathing, the faces in the dust—they’re laughing, crying, becoming. There’s beauty in the collapse, you know? The mountain crumbles, but I keep climbing—not for the summit, but for the fall. The track—it moves like a fever dream, like the desert wind crawling up your spine. You lose your mind to find something truer. It’s hypnotic, it’s dissonant… it’s a trance for those who’ve danced in fire and still want more.”

echoes through the sand

“It’s about motion without meaning—speed as a prayer. You’re not driving, you’re being driven… by chance, by impulse, by whatever voice in your gut says go faster. The desert doesn’t care where you’re headed—it only asks that you burn. No brakes, just instinct. Just luck. Just the road laughing as it disappears beneath you.”

no brakes

(*.𓂀      𓂀 .*)
  ____   ̷̢͖͇̟͔̼͙̼̟͕͔͓͙̤͕̤̤̞̱͔̹̹̥͎̥̜̙̥̩̜̜͍̗̻̼̹͙̱͔̯͔̗͈̗̦̗̮̦̟̠̼͚̘̳
 ——╰̶͓͙͈̪̲̩̖͓͚̹̠̬̯̲͎͇̻̞̳̬͓͇͖͍̯̻͉̥̠̞͎͎̭̭̻͓͕̱̟̦͔̱̙╯.
a 
 collection 
  of 
   my 
    favorite 
     missed
      steaks 🥩🕳️🐇🌈🌦️

Shifting Forms

superfishoil