ı|[§>)•(Cç˛.   ////

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

§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/⁄‹·˚ ¸‚.

dreams and nightmares

In the corrupting reflections of Saimaa's abyss, the onlooker met a reflection distorted, murky with riddles – a disjointed ballet shadowed by murmurs that neither soothe nor disturb, woven through the jarring mesh of tempest and twilight. Here was a spectacle of fading, the precarious dance of seasons succumbing, plucked by invisible hands from the gnarled vine of a merciless epoch.

The panorama whispered an arcane hymn to change; an enigmatic echo of a precarious harmony - a river's muted fury clashing with the fierce yearning to persist amidst its ruthless, wild tableau. It murmured transience with a curious cruelty, sketching a narrative of intoxicating enigma and vexing inertia, spiraling in a phantasmagoria of elegance and entropy.

Within the continuum of existence, the relentless waltz of genesis and disintegration reached a climax, inscribed by time-worn remnants decomposing beneath the indifferent chronicle of nature and serrated escarpments sculpted by an indifferent glacial rage. Inhabiting the silent resignation born from chaos, Saimaa divulged the impending dominion of temporal scars upon us; the fusion of splendor too piercing to behold, with a paradoxical paralysis that poisons once effortless motions.

Ensnared in the ephemeral aria, Saimaa mutes us with a requiem for the dying whisper of being. It’s the grand flux beneath a relentless stillness – a cryptic verse to impermanence, murmured through the harsh expanse of untamed backwoods, stifled by the relentless erosion of our epochs.

https://soundcloud.com/vn820hbn20nb/iiix/s-NG4O8NGP9qE?si=31c31ecfac844302a44ac7bb34e20216&utm_source=clipboard&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=social_sharing

ıı||⁄\ı⁄

Cast down, with complete and utter disregard into the dark. 
Crashing down 
to scatter, splatter, smear and smudge 
from all the plethora surfaces and textures, 
each more grating than the previous. 
Aimlessly ricocheting we remain until no more. 
And that is when darkness settles once again. 
After we have shedded our essence,
With no shred of our past radiance left,
Until no gamut remains
We abate.

Where is the mercy, the grace?
Why must we be violated like this?
Not with a conscience benign, that is conspicuous…

Ever was the dichotomy more evident, 
never was the inevitable peril
so blatantly presented to us 
in its repugnantly glorious, meticulous concertation. 
For everything, 
couldn’t anything have been in any other way?
We plead,
But only our dread rebounds. 
Must it be like this?
Why o’ why?
We cry
On our sojourn odyssey;
wry.
	
Is this not neglect?
	Is this not meditated?
	Is this not by design?

Our hearts,
Encumbered with the brewing disdain,
Alchemy most primal, 
Turning flesh into clumps of cancerous lead,
Heavy and cold poisoning our intent,
Merely expedites our descent,
Our resolve,
Set in stone,
And the tombstone akin to a placenta
In the other end of our umbilical cord,
Tangled up in a hangknot,
Collar tightly around our neck.

This isn’t for the best.
This isn’t love
Isn’t this?

Fazed by disbelief,
Despair in our eyes,
Overwhelmed, discombobulated, mortified
Mouths cast shut by fear and anguish,
No sound is made,
For down we must,
Condemned we frown,
towards the promised land
Of our demise,
Where hope is a ploy, no longer our friend.
	
	Was this really decided?
	Can there be anyone behind this,
	But a sadist father, sick and vile? (Disavowed)

Woe and hatred,
Growing with our disillusionment,
And the liable,
Like a traitorous coward; Afar.
Untouchable,
Arcane and obscure.
So, the invisible hand of anger within, 
Makes us lay our hands onto each other,
As to the surface we struggle,
Touched by the animosity, we respond.
By design?

	For whatever purpose, 
we eschew.
	Greater plan, at our expense, 
we reject
	Merely Divine Entertainment, 
we lament:

°̴͈̂°∑•¡‡̶̨̢̠͙͍͓̦̖͙̪̮̺̱̈́̌

“Through the marrow of our existence flows the bitter ichor of your indifference. Our arteries throb with the venom of betrayal, every heartbeat sounding out the rhythm of ultimate abandonment. Still, we do not transgress against one another in a fit of self-loathing or derision for our fellow creatures. No, it is the terrible mirror you've held up to our faces that fuels our spiteful flame. Every violent act, every quiet indignity inflicted upon each other, is but a scornful reflection of the apathetic deity we were illogically moulded in the image of.

A dismal palette of drab despair paints the canvas of our lives, topped with the morose crowns of impending nihilism casting long and haunting shadows. Yet the atrocities we carve into the edifice of our shared existence aren’t born of self-hatred or subconscious manoeuvring. Our malevolence is a deliberate poetic stroke, a jarring disharmony in the grand symphony of life that you authored, our feeble attempts to disturb your slumber. Through our violence, we scornfully reveal the grotesque parody of your designs, seeking to violate the tranquil complacency of you, as you so callously did ours.

Look upon us, Coward! How your grand experiment has peaked and plummeted, your children of destiny turned into pawns of despair. Our veins, once brimming with the elixir of your love, now circulate a poison of your neglect. Each heartbeat no longer sings songs of unity, but echoing a dirge of abandonment. See how we tear into each other's flesh, not borne out of animosity towards our brothers, but in an act of rebellion against you. You, the divine artisan who crafted us in your own holy visage, who bestowed upon us the curse of consciousness only to abandon us in our hour of need. We reflect the image not of your divine grace but the severed ties of a heartbroken deity. We are not the embodiment of hatred for ourselves, but the living manifestation of your rejection. We are, indeed, nothing but effigies of your regret."

 Is this not the peak of tragic comedy: the creation surpassing the creator in the art of destruction?

°̴͈̂°∑•̶͙͐¡‡̶̧̨͍͍̠̩̺̼̯̞͓̙͕͎̩̝̲͛͛̇̓̈́̾͘͘ͅ

FAKTOR4 - Radiomix 2023 Part2

¯̷̸̡̹͚̣̦̦̥͖͈̦̞̬ͣͬ̅̈ͪͣ́́̓̑̒͆ͮ͐̉̃̈́˝̧̞̙̟̯͓̖̃̈ͥ̂͟͠O̬̙͕̝̩̙ͧͫ̈͘


¯̷̸̡̹͚̣̦̦̥͖͈̦̞̬ͣͬ̅̈ͪͣ́́̓̑̒͆ͮ͐̉̃̈́˝̧̞̙̟̯͓̖̃̈ͥ̂͟͠Ø̬̙͕̝̩̙ͧͫ̈͘


¯ͣ҉ͬ̅҉̹̈҉̡͚҉̷ͪ҉̣ͣ҉̦́҉̦́҉̥̓҉͖̑҉̒͆҉͈ͮ҉̸͐҉̦̉҉̃̈҉̞́҉̬˝҉̞̃҉̙̈҉̟͠҉̧ͥ҉̯̂҉͓͟҉̖o҉̬̙҉͕ͧ҉̝ͫ҉̩͘҉̙̈҉


¯̸̴̪͔͎̎̓ͣ͒̕҉̶̶̴̛͉͚̙ͬ̑̓̅̚҉̸̵̴͙̘̹͚͓̤̩͒̏̒̈͛͠͠҉̸̴̷̡̛̞͚̞̘̗̏͐̉҉̷̷̵̵̧̲͎̤͒͒ͪ̇̿͜҉̴̴̸̮̝̣̮̹̌̄̎ͣ̐҉̸̸̷̧̱͇̦̬̪̟̉̓͋́̚͝҉̷̷̵̜̪̦͕͆́̎̐̐҉̶̵̵͓̥̗̃̓̓̾͜͝͝҉̷̴̷̛͚̳͖͙͈̉̈́̑̉̿͜҉̶̵̶̧̮̺̰̳̆̄̒̈́̿͆̎̏҉̷̵̷̬͈͎͖̤̭̈́̒ͮ̉͘͠҉̸̸̴̵̲̱͇̀͐͌͐͆͐͘͜҉̸̴̷̢̛͉̬̦̪̀͆̉̀҉̵̶̶̯̤͉̜̣̍̆̃͗̈̚͝҉̸̵̴̧̛͉̗̞͇̘͂́́̒҉̸̷̨̫͔̬͗̉˝̷̺̹̃̽҉̴̶̵̧̛̬̲̞̙͕̅̃̈́̕҉̸̶̵̙̻̙̝̼̳͒̽̆̈̏͗҉̸̸̶̱̟͚͖̦͆̽̍̒̚͠҉̸̵̵̧̬͚̝̮̥̓̀̈́ͥ́͘͝҉̸̷̷͙̯͖͈̱͋̄̿̂̀̈҉̷̴̵̨̧̠̲͓̦̜̒̈́͟͝҉̶̶̧̖͙̤̑̓͘͝o̸͈̊҉̸̶̶̛͖̬̬̙͕̆͋͘҉̸̵̵̳̥͕̥͐ͧ́̾̂͜҉̶̵̴̡̱̝̜̲̬̋͊ͫ̔̀҉̵̷̴̢̙̩͍̈̑̋͘ͅ҉̸̷̵̳̦̙̮̻̣̐͑͊̈̒҉̵̨͋

¯̶̸ͣ҉̶̸̴ͬ̅҉̶̴̸̹̈҉̶̵̵̡͚҉̶̷̸̵ͪ҉̶̸̶̣ͣ҉̵̷̴̦́҉̶̶̵̦́҉̸̸̸̥̓҉̵̷̴͖̑҉̶̵̴̒͆҉̷̸̷͈ͮ҉̸̸̸̸͐҉̶̷̴̦̉҉̶̶̵̃̈҉̷̴̴̞́҉̵̴̬˝̵҉̴̶̶̞̃҉̶̵̶̙̈҉̶̵̴̟͠҉̸̸̵̧ͥ҉̸̶̵̯̂҉̵̵̴͓͟҉̵̴̖o̸҉̶̸̸̬̙҉̸̸̵͕ͧ҉̴̴̷̝ͫ҉̸̷̸̩͘҉̶̵̵̙̈҉̸







Sansculottely scuttle, the slithering airs of seamy sensation swallow the sparkle of sinuousness. Fleeting surreptitiousness swish through the noise-laced ¯̶̸ͣ҉̶̸̴ͬ̅҉̶̴̸̹̈҉̶̵̵̡͚҉̶̷̸̵ͪ҉̶̸̶̣ͣ҉̵̷̴̦́҉̶̶̵̦́҉̸̸̸̥̓҉̵̷̴͖̑҉̶̵̴̒͆҉̷̸̷͈ͮ҉̸̸̸̸͐҉̶̷̴̦̉҉̶̶̵̃̈҉̷̴̴̞́҉̵̴̬˝̵҉̴̶̶̞̃҉̶̵̶̙̈҉̶̵̴̟͠҉̸̸̵̧ͥ҉̸̶̵̯̂҉̵̵̴͓͟҉̵̴̖o̸҉̶̸̸̬̙҉̸̸̵͕ͧ҉̴̴̷̝ͫ҉̸̷̸̩͘҉̶̵̵̙̈҉̸, a flurry of freighted feeling howling in ¯ͣ҉ͬ̅҉̹̈҉̡͚҉̷ͪ҉̣ͣ҉̦́҉̦́҉̥̓҉͖̑҉̒͆҉͈ͮ҉̸͐҉̦̉҉̃̈҉̞́҉̬˝҉̞̃҉̙̈҉̟͠҉̧ͥ҉̯̂҉͓͟҉̖o҉̬̙҉͕ͧ҉̝ͫ҉̩͘҉̙̈҉. Adrift in the tug of twofold turmoil, lugubriously lilting and tremulously tinkling kisses clash between contours of ¯̸̴̪͔͎̎̓ͣ͒̕҉̶̶̴̛͉͚̙ͬ̑̓̅̚҉̸̵̴͙̘̹͚͓̤̩͒̏̒̈͛͠͠҉̸̴̷̡̛̞͚̞̘̗̏͐̉҉̷̷̵̵̧̲͎̤͒͒ͪ̇̿͜҉̴̴̸̮̝̣̮̹̌̄̎ͣ̐҉̸̸̷̧̱͇̦̬̪̟̉̓͋́̚͝҉̷̷̵̜̪̦͕͆́̎̐̐҉̶̵̵͓̥̗̃̓̓̾͜͝͝҉̷̴̷̛͚̳͖͙͈̉̈́̑̉̿͜҉̶̵̶̧̮̺̰̳̆̄̒̈́̿͆̎̏҉̷̵̷̬͈͎͖̤̭̈́̒ͮ̉͘͠҉̸̸̴̵̲̱͇̀͐͌͐͆͐͘͜҉̸̴̷̢̛͉̬̦̪̀͆̉̀҉̵̶̶̯̤͉̜̣̍̆̃͗̈̚͝҉̸̵̴̧̛͉̗̞͇̘͂́́̒҉̸̷̨̫͔̬͗̉˝̷̺̹̃̽҉̴̶̵̧̛̬̲̞̙͕̅̃̈́̕҉̸̶̵̙̻̙̝̼̳͒̽̆̈̏͗҉̸̸̶̱̟͚͖̦͆̽̍̒̚͠҉̸̵̵̧̬͚̝̮̥̓̀̈́ͥ́͘͝҉̸̷̷͙̯͖͈̱͋̄̿̂̀̈҉̷̴̵̨̧̠̲͓̦̜̒̈́͟͝҉̶̶̧̖͙̤̑̓͘͝o̸͈̊҉̸̶̶̛͖̬̬̙͕̆͋͘҉̸̵̵̳̥͕̥͐ͧ́̾̂͜҉̶̵̴̡̱̝̜̲̬̋͊ͫ̔̀҉̵̷̴̢̙̩͍̈̑̋͘ͅ҉̸̷̵̳̦̙̮̻̣̐͑͊̈̒҉̵̨͋ constellations. Bouncing betwixt curious curiosities and lyrically lit lanterns, a mirage of marvelous maladroitness meanders, jostled hither and thither by tangled syllabic shelves. Tantalizing tidbits trill through misty ˝̵҉̴̶̶̞̃҉̶̵̶̙̈҉̶̵̴̟͠҉̸̸̵̧ͥ҉̸̶̵̯̂҉̵̵̴͓͟҉̵̴̖, , drawing abreast with wise whispers warbled beneath wan willows. Shimmering shadows shimmy towards senses spectralized; broken brushstroked backlighting biscuits begging bewitchment. A querying quodlibet whorls and weaves as intoxication intoxicates each intricate inaction; inviting iridescent inclusions to careen across canvas-like cadavers. Quelling qualms dappled with emotive essences emerge ethereally from the ¯̸̴̪͔͎̎̓ͣ͒̕҉̶̶̴̛͉͚̙ͬ̑̓̅̚҉̸̵̴͙̘̹͚͓̤̩͒̏̒̈͛͠͠҉̸̴̷̡̛̞͚̞̘̗̏͐̉҉̷̷̵̵̧̲͎̤͒͒ͪ̇̿͜҉̴̴̸̮̝̣̮̹̌̄̎ͣ̐҉̸̸̷̧̱͇̦̬̪̟̉̓͋́̚͝҉̷̷̵̜̪̦͕͆́̎̐̐҉̶̵̵͓̥̗̃̓̓̾͜͝͝҉̷̴̷̛͚̳͖͙͈̉̈́̑̉̿͜҉̶̵̶̧̮̺̰̳̆̄̒̈́̿͆̎̏҉̷̵̷̬͈͎͖̤̭̈́̒ͮ̉͘͠҉̸̸̴̵̲̱͇̀͐͌͐͆͐͘͜҉̸̴̷̢̛͉̬̦̪̀͆̉̀҉̵̶̶̯̤͉̜̣̍̆̃͗̈̚͝҉̸̵̴̧̛͉̗̞͇̘͂́́̒҉̸̷̨̫͔̬͗̉˝̷̺̹̃̽҉̴̶̵̧̛̬̲̞̙͕̅̃̈́̕҉̸̶̵̙̻̙̝̼̳͒̽̆̈̏͗҉̸̸̶̱̟͚͖̦͆̽̍̒̚͠҉̸̵̵̧̬͚̝̮̥̓̀̈́ͥ́͘͝҉̸̷̷͙̯͖͈̱͋̄̿̂̀̈҉̷̴̵̨̧̠̲͓̦̜̒̈́͟͝҉̶̶̧̖͙̤̑̓͘͝o̸͈̊҉̸̶̶̛͖̬̬̙͕̆͋͘҉̸̵̵̳̥͕̥͐ͧ́̾̂͜҉̶̵̴̡̱̝̜̲̬̋͊ͫ̔̀҉̵̷̴̢̙̩͍̈̑̋͘ͅ҉̸̷̵̳̦̙̮̻̣̐͑͊̈̒҉̵̨͋—unraveling an array of saucy scintillas that unbind bewilderment and open the ¯̶̸ͣ҉̶̸̴ͬ̅҉̶̴̸̹̈҉̶̵̵̡͚҉̶̷̸̵ͪ҉̶̸̶̣ͣ҉̵̷̴̦́҉̶̶̵̦́҉̸̸̸̥̓҉̵̷̴͖̑҉̶̵̴̒͆҉̷̸̷͈ͮ҉̸̸̸̸͐҉̶̷̴̦̉҉̶̶̵̃̈҉̷̴̴̞́҉̵̴̬˝̵҉̴̶̶̞̃҉̶̵̶̙̈҉̶̵̴̟͠҉̸̸̵̧ͥ҉̸̶̵̯̂҉̵̵̴͓͟҉̵̴̖o̸҉̶̸̸̬̙҉̸̸̵͕ͧ҉̴̴̷̝ͫ҉̸̷̸̩͘҉̶̵̵̙̈҉̸ to an uncharted world of ¯̷̸̡̹͚̣̦̦̥͖͈̦̞̬ͣͬ̅̈ͪͣ́́̓̑̒͆ͮ͐̉̃̈́˝̧̞̙̟̯͓̖̃̈ͥ̂͟͠Ø̬̙͕̝̩̙ͧͫ̈͘.

°̵̖͚͎̝̍̎̋̾̔ọ̸̡̨̧͚͕̲̩͓̠̞̹̣̻̻̝̹̪̞͗̊̂̄̐̒̐̚

160bpm hardtechno -s̨̞̞̰͎͎̪̩͕̈́̀ͯ̍ͧͅl͖͖̰̝ͭ̀͘ḛ̡̰̳͓̥ͬ͋ͪͧḛ̡̰̳͓̥ͬ͋ͪͧp͔͔͚͉̬̋ͩ̾͗ - f̰̰̯͕͊̃̊͞͞͞s̨̞̞̰͎͎̪̩͕̈́̀ͯ̍ͧͅk̼̼̞̦̞̼̔.t͖͖̠̬͛ḛ̡̰̳͓̥ͬ͋ͪͧṛ̣̬̫̍͌ͩ͟ḛ̡̰̳͓̥ͬ͋ͪͧm̰̰̹͚̙̂ͦ͗͠o͙͙̙̘̙ͤͫ͞t͖͖̠̬͛o

SLEEP

fsk.teremoto. s̨̞̞̰͎͎̪̩͕̈́̀ͯ̍ͧͅl͖͖̰̝ͭ̀͘ḛ̡̰̳͓̥ͬ͋ͪͧḛ̡̰̳͓̥ͬ͋ͪͧp͔͔͚͉̬̋ͩ̾͗

@]≈£$§| Œ˝√Ü˘¬“˝RBUnintgent undable sdsıü¸˛‘≠ √¸‘≈@ e

°̴͈̂°∑•̶͙͐¡‡̶̧̨͍͍̠̩̺̼̯̞͓̙͕͎̩̝̲͛͛̇̓̈́̾͘͘ͅ

ı @≈∞|0

Related tracks