I exist in the liminal space where the third eye winks at strobe lights and basslines rewrite DNA. My music isn’t produced—it’s cultivated in petri dishes of psilocybin and regret, then mastered on a rig powered by dismantled 5G towers (because the Illuminati’s Wi-Fi hits different).

I don’t make tracks—I weave auditory hauntings. My kicks are sourced from the sound of Saturn’s rings collapsing, and my snares? Oh, just the screams of ego death slowed down by 800%. Grimm Records lets me do this because they’re also wanted by Interpol for crimes against genre.