(prod . Zyeq x ohkin) 

Mix & mastered by Wilmer 

like/comment/repost if you fw it 💫

Walking Zombie

Opp Talk 2

Got shi 10x better den this in the vault , Fw this for rn till the real fye drop 🔥

Fall in line

4:00 am

Concern Me

“friends” (prod. Fredo)

mind up

A remix to the original track by BOA Reyes, "High in the Booth"

High In The Booth (Remix)

High In The Booth (Remix) [feat. BricKay]

No relations

Tap In & Listen Across Various Platforms 

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/artist/smoke-face-player/1748017564

Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/3DMYXpZfAGO12bJgDnTEND?si=yPM3FxewTVujJLR5A5uY6A

YouTube: https://youtube.com/channel/UCmjfqlbqSaXid3uqACMvG9w?si=JlmioW_wInhtMhDk

Figure it out

The legend goes like this:

One night, after a long studio session, you’re on the last train back home—half asleep, headphones dead, phone at 1%. The city feels weirdly empty. As the train pulls into a random station, you notice an old, beat-up red mailbox on the platform. No Canada Post logo, just three words spray-painted on the side:

“SEND WHAT YOU CAN’T SAY.”

You get off the train without even knowing why.

The mailbox has no slot for letters, just a cracked phone screen bolted into the metal. When you touch it, your own iMessage drafts pop up—every unsent paragraph, every angry note, every “yo I miss you” you typed and erased. Messages to old friends, to people you lost, to the city itself. Stuff you forgot you ever wrote.

Then the screen glitches.

The drafts start turning into song titles. Your late-night rants become verses. Old voice notes you saved “just in case” become hooks. The phone freezes on one final prompt:

“LAST CHANCE TO SEND: greetings from toronto (unsent)”

You hit cancel.

The station lights flicker. When they come back on, the mailbox is gone. All that’s left is a folder on your phone with rough demos that didn’t exist five minutes ago.

Over the next few months, every time something heavy happens—a fight, a win, a panic attack, a crazy night downtown—a new “unsent” file shows up in that folder. You never remember recording it, but it sounds like you: tired, honest, and way too real. Eventually you realize the album is basically writing itself from everything you’ve lived through in this city.

So you finish it. You polish the drafts, build around them, turn the chaos into tracks… but you leave the title exactly how it showed up the first night:

“greetings from toronto (unsent)”

Concern Me

BLANCO