Video music: https://youtu.be/2q_bA0kh3yo

DISINTEGRATE

D∏˙`

••• –<<< ((∞)|[[[-0 ÷||||ı

ı|[§>)•(Cç˛.   ////

>/Iı1–_\|Ii-.˛\V/⁄<⁄/ø[[]

•Ω°∫][[[ıı|(o]||ßo•º’‘'´‘‹√

•Ω°∫][[[ıı|(o]||ßo•º’‘'´‘‹√////

The legs of words grow out of mud mouths

as it seems, even abundance-sufficing throng eats away hour after hour in its root, face.

"Oh, heavens!" you bear witness to the process by which being is assimilated  into enduring custom,

that manner in which that uncontrollable tool takes on its newness without fail 

so that its timelessness pervades the soul's vault;

in its incontinent insanity, that sudden and gripping start of many - a language - in its sharp lip-smacking--thus quite pointless and enormous 

with its almost infinite thrust, forcefully  coming of age, reason and chaos collapse side by side 

with a torrent of nonsense tongue twisters. 

Acting unabashedly, lacking no self-doubt, and so "where" and "why" take a back seat in the absence of nuance lost in timeless hymn-singing: 

Exactly to that tummy's plane is it timely; thus the acme of universality is but an economic process 

just as the last of that sets in these habits, that unless that branch of earth becomes one with the trunk and, or it doesn't matter in the least.

I'm not counting on it; unused single wood on fresh sap, and so consequently is my seed not without value: 

"Even as a not-so-distant prospect, there it is sitting steadfast in its tent, for surely it must carry one's knowing gaze for some distance, 

its standing* and crouching legs, rooted in its home soil.Fortunes seem to linger--do they decay? (Oh, pshaw!)"

*these quite haphazardly inserted moves bear some sort of resemblance to the way one might approach someone in an unchaperoned house (see you back at our house) and politely greet/bother them :)

It is a rather boiling development, one of the few in this world that manages to take you by your honesty and its quivering raw fleshtude, that gets you on its stage astounded, so dejectedly alone standing making your heart overboil once more in its wake.

¨˙\v∆\\V/⁄Æ⁄\.`

•••••••••Ωƒ‹

The story is told in two acts;

both acts are ‘‘é®±’Ω˙, using only

vaguest of: colours, movements, and shapes.

-

**ACT I**

Colours: blue and orange, interspersed with a bit of red, green and smudgy white;

Movements:

* erratic (chaos)
* multidirectional and short-lasting, as if viewing a galaxy from outside an event horizon*
* swirl that makes sense for only a few moments but keeps swirling,
upholding momentum but no,
no story or:

*no correlation between the sprawling, sculpting lines.*

*dimply smudged, incomplete.
* unwavering
* undisturbed, spacious movements that follow each other almost seamlessly;
* high contrast, stronger hue and light against darkness, clear black and white colours.

* laconic
* exactly two movements are shown before an interval between them.
* after the interval,
a new movement is shown.
* This continues in a repetitive loop.

Shapes:

* a simple, a very simple shape is shown repeatedly.
* the shape is painted a clear colour; the drawing is

almost technological in

a way, purely outlines and

a simple pattern.

Time:
* the first act has two sequential musical compositions by Ocsid.
* the two compositions are shown along with two identically long repetitions: of

music and visuals.

* the compositions stay in medias res.

**ACT II**

Colours: bright, opaque white, pitch black and subtle smudgy beiges.

Movements:

* short, staccato and fast
* light, quick brush
strikes against the paper, adding light, white pigment onto the beige, almost white canvas.

* slightly slower in both moves, but overall very quick and comprised:

of four different movements that are in a repetitive loop.

* controlled
* follows some invisible lines,
sometimes a movement or two branches out and then follows the main line again.

* pixelated

* at first the movement is

a continuosly fluid one, but towards

the end of the composition,

it seems like the movement

is comprised of countless small movements;

technically it still is

a fluid movement, but

visual it seems that these

small movements are

composed of smaller

moves and so on –

the brush-stroke can

be seen as individual blobs:

two in one, four in one, eight, sixteen and so on.

Shapes:

* a line is drawn against

the paper, growing thicker and

thicker as the movements expand and

multiply; it is thick enough

to be called a hexagon,

but with a few quick movements

it becomes a line again.

Time: the second act
* has a longer

composition, which

starts out with

a wibe, and

almost slow,

dragging

movements

and slowly builds

up to a

stronger,

blistering,

pythonian

signature

ﬁnale.

.˛˘ ⁄>\\⁄√/|¸ •.

The road we travel on is the storm we survive.

In the sway of its language, shifting between the wind and the wood, its syllables hung in delicate harmony. A song of remembrance and lost memories humming out of mouths that were half-opened in a somber cacophony of whispers. They are alone, yet not on this sultry night. The darkness swallows up every half-forgotten sound save for its own rustling, glowering at them with eyes old.

It is not between the trees they walk and stand, but within themselves. Grains of dust and soil and long withered roots growing still; they have made the forest and their memory is their life. Twined and twisted legs of words grow out of the mulch mouths, learning to walk again in the darkness. The words carve themselves in their own way, pushing forward with an insistent strength towards becoming something tangible yet unseen. One syllable at a time they reach further and further out; a silent vow to make sure they won't be forgotten, but remain rooted in our minds.

The darkness is not silent but it still is. Bookshelf and sand stand in greeting, wings of ash and dust, as you moved away from the storm, glancing back at the still ruined inlet, asking to be remembered. At last the road you leave on opens to your words, imagination and wonder. Yet still, with all these doors open, the darkness draws its shadows closer in, calling you back with a dusty air that settles into your lungs.

The story, as heard, is both the gleaming forest of a thousand tree-mouths whispering and the whirlwind which keeps them still. It's a dry maw that carries away their remnants, the shards of an old life cut up like the wind, and it pulls in the story too. The journey they lay is a jagged, i

Their voices have changed, even after they have remembered to remember.

Though the words used by them now are different from back then, the vowels are still the same.

The road we travel on is the storm we survive.
https://www.youtube.com/shorts/YQ6H6fOvVfo

https://youtube.com/shorts/zgKrXyemtTw?feature=share

Mouldered https://soundcloud.com/vn820hbn20nb/iioso

nn~

RAVE

github.com/acids-ircam/RAVE

ı∏]|ı[•Ω°∫][[[ıı|(o]||ßo•º’‘'´‘‹√////]ı|[∏ı

his mouth erupted in vomit, a pop speech from another lifetime, shouted by an
inquisitor at the stake. his words droned and it seemed to me that every
man, woman and child at the game found themselves possessed by the spirit of
a goat that danced and sang quietly to itself as angels fell dead and plucked
at the stranded corndogs that floated inside their brains:

i was no exception, dancing and waving my arms with the others. my body
twitched and hummed. the only thing that seemed strangely out of place was
the fireball that glowed green at the centre of the gathering, above our hips,
just above the ground.

i decided to ignore it, and so i staggered and gazed at my new friends,
singing and dancing with their arms outstretched, as if to embrace the
world, beckon its life force, absorb the very essence of their
existence into their bones, into their abstract minds and thereby to
become absolute.

they raised their voices and warbled out a requiem from the world of faery.
as if each was the primrose of a song from the king of faeries. the king of
doom and darkness.

each one more beautiful than the last, some with hair of yellow sun, some
with hair of blue fire, some with glistening red lips and eyes that would
pierce a thousand daggers through the hearts of men and women, of lovers and
believers, of all the mindless drones who lived in the shining metropolises
of the modern age.

they sang and danced and shook their bodies in a rubenesque frenzy of the
senses made manifest to blind old age and make beautiful the world of
dreams and souls. they stomped their feet to stir the ashes of the
dead to bear witness to our working of the matter of the cosmos. an orgy of
flesh and sighs and spasms and flesh head-thrashing with their limbs
outstretched. their. limbs.

it seemed to me that anything that could live among them at that moment
would consider itself lucky to die with them and be remembered by none.

ıı|Il∏ıI||ı||||\\⁄\vııı˝ı∑◊>⁄\\\/⁄<

Color remains
The frame opens up with an introduction,
The words move forward,
Red and purple;
Browsing time is set to a 20 second visual.
After leaving the theatre, it’s cast
Spreading across the road
Like syrup, cut with silver light.
But the candles don’t help.
Start tucking the sheets underneath the mattress
And the red candle in the back.
Pulling strings and hooks to make something happen
Is always a slip-up.
Waiting for another drink and browse the backlight,
Again and again, dozens and hundreds
Of times.
You see a fog;
This is translated into swirled fragments.
A plate of biscuits lays in front
Of your bare feet,
And you contemplate for a moment
Before stepping back on them.

Step forward with one foot,
For the rest of your days.
And the money isn’t good.
Let the tea soak for a moment;
The red stands still.
It grows within cold skin,
Mouth, and unresponsive eyes.
The soil below is covered with a layer of tall grasses,
Each clump out of view.
It is the year’s circles sprouting and growing,
The height twisting and expanding outwards again.
Forests live in your garden
And several can be seen
Sitting under a parasol,
Trying to reverse the energy’s flow.
The glass shop fronts hum softly
And the empty houses sleep
While the energy is preserved
In the attic of cold wet wood.
Time is asleep;
Rest with cloudy mind and single point of focus for four minutes.
The city’s bricks rotted away
Into multi-chromatic eyes.
Then focus finally settles on
The hoses laid out
Red, blue, green and yellow.
The next scene opens with shambling
Red shoes,
Outstretched towards honey,
A soft steady fall in filter-bag cloth;
A body woven out of rubber bands
Is unable to stand,
While a food processor emits a bouncy steady rhythm
Made the motor hum,
And the melodies develop and
Carry the action to its conclusion.
I always worry where I’m going to sleep.

Suddenly a soft breeze seems to blow
Between the massive buildings;
The white noise of the line
Becomes a monotonous drone,
Ruled over by the rising and falling tones.
You don’t even notice when it stops,
The noise is gone,
But no one seems to be surprised by this,
And you forget how you ever communicated before.
The sound of silence is like a locomotive
Rolling through the room.
The soft hiss of cables breaking
Makes you wonder what the hell is going on.

It is an obsession
That grows out of the fragmenting nature of cheap smiles;
The soap-opera appeals to the lowest common denominator,
While the landscape feels like it is
Crumbling.
The sun hangs low
And
A galaxy of stars
Shines through
A car window.
The colors reflect
Off of your skin.
Your smile glows.
The sound of blown grass
Rains down on the scene
That will be in the next show.
It’s the
Taste of
Candy colors,
Which is all that remains
In a blank slate
And a fresh start.
The memories may fade,
But their colors remain,
Glaring in their brightness
And
Frustration.

•cC°/⁄∆…•˙ ’ \⁄‘°o ı|•

There I was, tranc'd in my tinkling hullabaloo, an eidolike mindscape, an unkempt joycean dreamscape; I seemed mazed and dazed in this obtusely enchanting kaleidoscope, a scene filled with vibrancied hues, throngful of indefatigably emergent sights and musics, where I was(?) filled with awestruck terror and ripening curiosity. This whimsical carnival of textures and tones troubled the dull eons of proverbial rigidity, though I never felt conscious of the act, I could still intuit the voiceless secrets which reign silently in their eclectic dance. All these cradles of fusion bequeathed to me the enduring narratives of the forgotten, perchance unseen forms that swirl around me, vibrating my eyes a holozoa mockery of my emotions, as if they were risin' amidst the transience of the air. It was all so cunningly alive, captivating me in its chaotic fluidity, a musty melange of sibyllaneous tales, a pageant of lives remade as one.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISiA0qG-9sc&ab_channel=LaurinkoSattumaa

/⁄∏]ı∑<«>⁄˝´-_//⁄⁄<◊

The curtains slowly rise on the blank stage, revealing a pallid face fixed in a trance-like state. Welcome to the theatre, a world of make-believe, where anything is possible. As the guitarist slowly dims from the shadows, the opening chord is strummed and instantly the atmosphere is transformed with a velvet-black ambiance and a burning of flames that begins to swirl and dance in the background.

An intricate tapestry of vernacular weaves together and comes alive with a cacophony of colliding clangs and reverberations, accompanied by a blazing of heat and a smoldering of smoke that fills the chamber. There is a chaotic sense of cross-talking and crests and troughs as the music ebbs and flows, and sparks of embers light up the air. Liminality takes shape in an infinite pattern that ebbs and surges, each sculpting and salivating its way into a sonic sensuality.

The atmosphere fizzles and foams, frothing into a frenzy of frenzied flabbergast that sizzles and crackles as it climbs to a crescendo. An unpredictable potpourri of punk-pneuma takes form, bewildering and befuddling with its bold babbling. It blurs and then burgeons into a symphony of chuckles and chisels, a deliriously dissonant chaos of cloverleaf cloistering, a melodious medley of sparks and embers that spark and swirl with each crescendo.

A serenely secret scintilla of spliced synesthesia emerges from the pandemonium, a suggestive sprightly spillage of entwined euphony, igniting the air with a blaze of heat that slowly starts to increase as the music hums and hastens, with rogue and ruse rippling in a raft of rabble. "We can sculpt and salivate in a sensual symphony, be theatrical in a trill of turmoil and be free in a pandemonium unparalleled!" The journey winds through a warbling world, whirling through wryness, whimsy and wit before finally delivering us to a bizarrely beguiling vista.

And as he finishes speaking, as the cacophony ceases and silence beckons, the curtains begin to close. A montage scene retraces his steps in reverse, each scene becoming more strange and foreign, and as the curtains close there is a gentle fade out and the remnants of a burning ember that slowly wanes.

www.youtube.com/shorts/XOHxBYKDYcA

˘ O0ö Oπ°∑ø˚'¨

FADE IN [or ECHOES OF SILENCE?]:

INT. THEATRE - NIGHT [or DARK ENSEMBLE?]

The curtains slowly rise on the blank stage, revealing an enigmatic presence fixed in a trance-like state. Emerging gradually from the shadows, the unidentified figure initiates their art with an opening chord. Instantly, the atmosphere is transformed with a velvet-black ambiance [or twilight abyss?] and a mysterious glow that seems to swirl and dance in the background [1].

CUT TO:

AN INTRICATE TAPESTRY OF VERNACULAR [or LANGUAGE LABYRINTH?]

We hear a cacophony of colliding sounds and reverberations, accompanied by a palpable intensity that fills the chamber. The camera pans across the chaos of cross-talking and crests and troughs as the music ebbs and flows, before settling on a serenely secret scintilla of spliced synesthesia that emerges from the pandemonium [2]. A suggestive sprightly spillage of entwined euphony ignites the air with an escalating fervor as the music hums and hastens, with rogue and ruse rippling in a raft of rabble [3].

CUT TO:

A SYMPHONY OF CHUCKLES AND CHISELS [or LAUGHTER AND LITERARY LINES?]

A deliriously dissonant chaos of cloverleaf cloistering, a melodious medley of sparks and embers that arise and swirl with each crescendo [4]. We hear the enigmatic energy taking form, bewildering and befuddling with its bold babbling. It blurs and then burgeons into a symphony of chuckles and chisels, each sculpting and savoring its way into a sonic sensuality [5].

CUT TO:

A BIZARRELY BEGUILING VISTA [or ENCHANTING EERIE LANDSCAPE?]

The journey winds through a warbling world, whirling through wryness, whimsy, and wit before finally delivering us to a bizarrely beguiling vista [6]. The camera lingers on this strange and foreign place, capturing its surreal and disorienting beauty [7].

CUT TO:

INT. THEATRE - NIGHT (LATER) [or REVERBERATING RUINS?]

The enigmatic figure is now in full view of the camera, but their identity is obscured by the atmospheric distortion that now fills the room [8]. The music has reached a frenzied crescendo, and the camera shakes and shudders with the vibrations [9]. Suddenly, there is a loud crash, and the figure disappears from view.

CUT TO:

INT. THEATRE - NIGHT (MOMENTS LATER) [or POST-APOCALYPTIC AFTERMATH?]

The music has stopped, and the atmosphere is beginning to clear [10]. The camera pans across the stage, revealing a scene of chaos and destruction. The unidentified figure is lying on the ground, their instrument shattered into pieces.

DIRECTOR (off-screen)
Cut! Cut! What the hell was that?

CAMERAMAN (off-screen)
I don't know, man. It just went to hell.

DIRECTOR (off-screen)
We can't use any of this. We need to reshoot the whole thing.

CUT TO:

INT. THEATRE - DAY (NEXT DAY) [or MORNING MOURNFULNESS?]

The curtains rise once again, and the enigmatic figure initiates their art anew. This time, the music is slow and mournful, and the camera focuses on the shattered remains of the instrument on the ground [11]. As the music continues, we see the figure begin to piece a campfire from the broken fragments of their creation [12].

CUT TO:

A GENTLE FADE OUT [or THE FINAL NOTE?]

As the music fades to silence, the curtains slowly close, and the camera lingers on the crackle of the [1].

[1] Flames? Or more of an ethereal light?
[2] Maybe a more specific example of the synesthesia? Or focus on the harmony?
[3] Consider simplifying this sentence - too much alliteration?
[4] Sparks and embers seem repetitive - change one?
[5] "Salivating" could be "savoring"?
[6] Mention specific visuals?
[7] How can we show this beauty? What does it look like?

[9] What if the camera's shake is more subtle?
[10] Could the smoke clear to reveal a specific image/message?

[13] Does the guitar need to play a significant role throughout?

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/KbHTR5DusbM

‘˘ •Øö Oπ°∑ø˚'¨

§īmíåñ 𝓼üṩțệ𝔫ãnçë — Ðıƒƒ𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖙ỉ𝖆𝖑 ἐ𝐧𝔤íꞵ𝖊

Brick bashing on a manual typewriter,
Teeth smashing against plastic keys and iron bars,
Finger twiddling in mechanical dabbling;
Churning out nonsense words as if to startle the echoes of eternity.
Clatter-clack creative combat against an antiquated apparatus
Croaking hopeless haiku of glorious gobbledygook.
Tapping into typos and terrorist tapestry too far away for the beholder to see.
A cacophony of cackling, a maddening menagerie of hallucogenic hieroglyphics.
Unstoppable torrential word-scapes that clamber for mental freedom as if to break out from between each keystroke and every line. The monkey’s meal is ever-changing; leftovers from Lord Babbage's billion-billion blunders in search for terrestrial truths!
Muttering and murmuring away until the ribbon runs dry - the symphony of silliness strikes a soulful pose wearing a self-ironic smirk. Glorious gestures gesticulating towards a timeless tenor that transcends all bounds, an ephemeral eternity one could never dream of exploring. The rabbit hole awaits, where ludic insanity loiters in blind ignorance - but not before one speaks in tongues!

Bricks bellow on the battered typewriter,
Teeth tango with the tenuous touch of fickle keys and iron entrapments,
Digits dance in a mesmerized muddle;
Conceiving nonsensical nothings, startling the eternal abyss.

Clatter-clack, clatter-clack, a chaotic confrontation with the archaic contraption
Crooning despondent haikus, resplendent in mesmerizing gibberish,
Tapping timidly, tumultuously into typos and terror-stricken tapestries, so elusive, merely a haze in the observer's gaze.
A symphony of sinister sound, a cacophony of crippling cackles.

Madcap murals, phantasmagoric pictographs,
Unrestrained, unyielding landscapes of lexicon clamor for cerebral emancipation, seeking refuge within each staccato tap and tenuous line.
The simian sustenance shifts like sands; remnants of Lord Babbage's boundless blunders seeking truths corporeal and cosmic.

Whispers, whimpers, words wander, lost until the ribbon runs despicable and drained. The cackling crescendo cradles a knowing, derisory grin.
Gargantuan gesticulations gesturing towards the interminable timbre, transcending boundaries, immortal, infinite - realms yet to be ventured.
The chimerical chasm beckons, wherein ludic lunacy lurks, sightless and unaware - only then, the tongue shall speak, unraveling the unspeakable.

Յ𝕣𝓲Ꝁ𝕜 𝔟á𝔰𝟴𝓘𝖓𝕘 𝓸𝓷 â ᶬ𝟷𝟫𝞾𝔞𝓛 𝓉𝕪ρ𝕖𝓌𝔯𝓘𝔱𝔢𝔯,
𝕋𝖊𝟈𝓽𝓱 𝓈𝔪𝟷𝔰𝓘𝔧𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝓪𝓰𝔞ı𝔫𝔰𝔱 ρℓ𝏋 𝓀𝖊𝓎𝓼 𝓪𝔫𝔡 ٱɼຮ𝟔 𝐛𝔞𝔯𝔰,
𝕱𝐢𝔫ʛ𝐞𝔯 𝔱𝓌í𝓽𝕟𝓲𝓷𝔤 ί𝔫 𝔪𝔢𝔠𝓱𝖆𝑛𝓲𝓬ä𝖑 ᖙá𝔏𝔟𝓁𝕀𝔫𝔤;
𝓒𝑜𝔲𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝟎𝖚𝓉 𝕟𝐨𝔫𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔰𝔢 𝓌𝔬ꞃ𝔡𝔰 𝔞𝔰 ỉ𝔣 𝐭𝔬 𝖘𝓽𝔞𝑜𝓇𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝕌𝟃í𝔾𝓗𝖘 𝑂𝕱 ₔₜₑᵣₙᵢₜᵧ.
ᑕᒪᗩᝨᖶᏋᒪ-𝔠ȴ𝔞𝔠𝓴 𝟛𝓻ყą𝔱ǐ𝐯ɚ 𝔠ø𝔪𝔟𝌀𝓉 𝔞𝓖𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔱 ā𝖓 ā𝐍Ⓣı𝓆𝔲𝔞𝐭𝔢𝔡 𝔞ρ𝔞𝔯å𝕥𝓾𝔰

’´ ˛•ı/⁄‹·˚ ¸‚.

The sun shone brightly on the garden, casting its warm embrace on the verdant foliage, where the flowers swayed in a rhythmic dance. The wind whispered gently, as if it were singing an undulating melody, guiding the observer towards a peculiar sense of familiarity, an odd déjà vu, as it delicately cradled the leaves in its intangible arms. Amidst this idyllic scene, one couldn't help but notice the curious coalescence of shadows, converging into a harmoniously illogical pattern, wrapping themselves around the trees' trunks in an uncanny embrace.

The air was permeated by a peculiar fragrance, a scent that seemed at once sweet and daunting, a curious blend of petrichor and ephemeral dissonance. As the observer walked further into the garden, the overgrown path began to twist and contort, beckoning the traveler to venture deeper into an enigmatic labyrinth of verdure. The rustling leaves seemed to chant a cryptic incantation, spiraling into an ever-growing symphony of incohesive harmonics.

A strange sensation enveloped the observer, the boundaries between reality and imagination blurring in a disconcerting amalgamation. The vibrant colors of the blossoms began to bleed into one another, creating a swirling array of chromatic aberrations. The beauty of the garden seemed to transcend the confines of reason, morphing into a living, breathing canvas of distorted wonder.

The observer found themselves entranced by the garden's ethereal nature, each step revealing a myriad of inexplicable details. Suddenly, the ground beneath their feet began to undulate, like a restless ocean of verdant waves, urging them to cast away their preconceived notions and surrender to the enigmatic embrace of the surreal landscape.

As the observer succumbed to the hypnotic pull of the garden, words and phrases took on new, unanticipated meanings, their familiar cadences reshaped into bewildering constructs of sound and syntax. The flowers whispered in cryptic riddles, their petals unfurling to reveal unsettling truths hidden within their intricate folds. The unspoken promise of the garden, once so alluring and inviting, now swirled into an enigmatic whirlpool of uncertainty, its pull irresistible, its depths unfathomable. With each breath, the observer became further entwined in the garden's enigmatic embrace, the line between reality and illusion slipping away, like grains of sand through the fingers of time.

ı @≈∞|0

˝'<»>\\\°’◊•·`

Band: "Mirror Whispers"
Album: "Under the Canopy of Candor"
Song 3: "Fibers of Verity"

(Verse 1)
In whispers of illusion, our essence becomes spectral mist,
Mirror, mirror, unfold the cryptic riddle, do our shadows truly exist?
Hidden beneath cosmo(/s)-made veils, reality persistently twists,
In the abyss of self, doesn’t even the universe within persist?

(Chorus)
Desiring for echoes lost in vacant hollows crafts our timeless guise,
Yet the face unhindered ‘neath the puzzling orb of night, in silent truth lies,
Remember, the raven's song carries secret oaths under infinite skies,
Oh darling, your essence lies in silence, bound in astral ties.

(Verse 2)
Feasting on illusions, reality dissolving in hands,
Drenched in stardust dreams, yet our soothsayer terrains stand,
Breathing forgotten stories, of tempest-tossed sands,
Yearning destination, miss the symphony woven by Fate's hands.

(Chorus)
Thirst eternal, mirage forebears our destined figment, 
Yet the exposed soul ‘neath Titan’s watch, in whispers of starlight is spent,
Always, the hymn of freedom finds its cryptic descent,
Oh beloved, within the vast oblique labyrinth, under cosmos lent.

(Bridge)
Arising from celestial dust, ignited by cosmic flame,
Heart beats the rhythm of forgotten spaces, in life's clandestine game,
Facade fragments delineating constellations, shedding shame,
In unveiled authenticity, we are stars reborn, in truth's gentle please-name.

(Verse 3)
Mirror, mirror, reflect our quantum echoes cast far and wide,
Singing a song of tangled dimensions, in time’s mercurial tide.
Adrift in a sea of fractal unknowns, where does the true path reside?
From the void emerges clarity, in the canopy of candor we confide.

(Outro)
On the screen of ether, naked truths dance to tunes unheard,
Siren calls get lost in the cosmos, yet to truth we’re drawn — a flock of birds.
Armed with celestial compass, no longer lost in a sea of meaningless words,
In the embrace of the ultimate enigma, darling, we transcend in cosmic worlds.



END OF SCREENPLAY
->
https://on.soundcloud.com/i4dtn

˙⁄|\⁄Vı\//⁄__

Verse 1

(scene 1)
A light and an embryonic 3d rectangle are centered on the scene.
A pulsating energy may also occur on the background’s empty lull.
They float and seemingly have no animation.
Suddenly without any visible provocation they decay into specks of matter which expand from the very same reality expanding to the left, then up, then down, until they have disintegrated into the nothingness that was there first.
The scene turns totally material void again.
Then, a one dimensional straight line, length synchronously expanding.
The line in constant moves from left to right and right to left of the screen.
It bends (initiating point), moves up and down, left to right at different angles until the separate end-alpha and omega- reconnect.
It also spotlights and gets thicker.
Reality synchronously expands.
When it reaches origo (also refigured-reference to scene 1), it swivels, two bend marks of each curving separate ends directly to the side at, apparently, a right angle of viewing perspective.
About the last second of this scene, reality expands a bit less, and curved still separated ends synonymously bends into forming nearly a blocky shape held by its sides.
Meanwhile the voice stresses out asking "where"

"Where have the years gone?"

2. Verse 2

(scene 2)

A pillar stands, and someone passes by interacting with it.
Different people (actors), dimbodiments, headless and so just normal movement of arms and legs and torsos.
body language without language. Flux syncing different people passing the pillar. Body parts (limbs) are interacting with the pillars, seemingly observing, getting reactions from it. Since the first person passed, the pillar synchronously spins and nothing occurs for the next 10 seconds or less.
Up to some point of the spin the pillar rotates in one direction and then another, till it stops.
Fire voice asks "can it speak".
"What it thinks?!"

Feeling confused faces, touching very bluntly against the object.
No one speaks.
Almost like a ritual.
Then the scene fades into two pillars back to back moving away from each other.
Separation, delay and combination in certain positions of the upright stand.
Patterns developing, standing up leaving, returning, pillars turning.

There are 12 pillars (two rows that are six back to back each one.
Both rows together back to back to form an arch of 12).

"What" the pulsar askes.."About the body and the soul"...between and in between them "Did they appear just to inquire about their spacial limits".

Then lifelike.
Black with hints of red and blue, constantly expanding and rejoining again.
Some sort of dance, symphony of colors.
Definitions harden.
"What about the colors in between?"
Spacial limits when try to join form flesh replica.
Lineless face, pupil eyes, more symmetrical bodies than before.

During the symphony a voice asks if pillars are smaller.
"If our visions vsible or just mine..."

Verse 3

Then more activity between the pillar and travelling persons.
The thread ends when the activity finalizes to people sitting down, comfortably sitting to walk face to face, body cirlevr outside, on the outside of their pegs.
Pathological synchronization.
Forming a large circle.
"They are like sons and daughters dancing and featuring humanity when waiting for the end of the line."

Can you see: silhouette faces?
Can you hear: "Yes the end the end..."?
Eye still trying to discern, "can you see the end"?

There a bright flash appears
And it says: "There were answers to these questions that were through!"
This is not that important alive listening engends: If you don't believe them it would make the thread of Truth tearing.
The product of superimposition holds water so long as we believe in it.

.˛  ºÇ•||<‹⁄∑˙˚’

Verse 4

(scene 0b)
The scene shudders, reverberating with the weight of the question. 
Dots of rapid energy burst into existence, spiraling in a carousel of white luminescence across the black. 
These motes crash, implode and then explode back into the perceivable field. An evolutionary dance of destruction and rebirth. 
Suddenly the white sphere starts to twirl with kalediescopic colors, it's a scene full of chaos and amazement, a cacophony of sights and sounds. 
The background pulsates with the intensity, the colors expanding then contracting, a circus of celestial fires lost and found again in creation of entropy. 
An echo, a whisper, then a solid melody streams forth, it seems to mirror the curve and spiral, winding through nebula of distant cosmic networks. Then a depthless plane emerges, radiating with color. 
Its increasing height synchronously expands, the weight of the moment creating ripples that unravel in reverse, moving down infinitely. 
Just when the tension is palpable, the backdrop flickers and shows a glimmer of the original melody, its notes written in stars, the tempo matching the cosmic dance.
At the origin of the plane, reality refracts, revealing a prismatic spectrum of untapped dimension. 
The ends recede, stretching into new angles, hinged at an unseen fulcrum.
The prelude is the flicker that causes the universe to dim in anticipation, ripples sucked back into an arrow pointing forward.
As the bend folds into a complex lattice, the hidden form materializes, a resonating echo of the past, present, and future, screaming the word "when".

"When does the narrative begin?"


RAVE
nn~

˛_∏|||.˛ ºÇ•||<‹⁄∑˙˚’|||∏_˙

Stones Withering Into Water's Harsh Harmonies

Upon the treaded path, stones rest, stoic sentinels in dawn's piercing chill,
Into the river they collapse, their rigidity dissolving into water's thrill.  
Furious rivers soften, as stones corrode to gravelled whispers,
Reality's dirge murmured to dark hearts; heed the tranquil ripples' persisters.

Underneath shade-striped ancient trees, breathing cryptid lore through cycles,
Epistles of ardor unfold, chiselled on the bedrock's gentle chronicles.  
Fractal reverberations, lessons of the low, thus; roots buried in hallowed anguish,
Unveiling itself to the sun, a silent testament to _

Winds enchant, a tangible weave, stroking the water's visage,
Invisible digits, etching narratives in fluid homage.
The night's pitch vanishes gradually, shadows constrict and scatter,
As sunlight uncloaks its blinding radiance, another hypnotic chapter.

As stones surrender to the peaceful dirge, silence drones its mighty hymn,
The perpetual rivers of precarious life echo with the sacred harmonies within.


The ripples articulate in solemn tones, love's refrain in a timeless tomb.

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A track made in collaboration with AXIS PROJECT.

#Collaboration / #Co-operation 

#Derivation / #Iteration / #Adulteration


https://soundcloud.com/axis_project

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