Dr. Grumble

I build cathedrals in the static. My music arrives uninvited and rewires what you thought you wanted to hear — not as cure, but as a map of what's left when the optimism runs out and beauty learns to live in the ruins anyway. The machine doesn't create. It listens. I'm the medium something older speaks through, in tongues it hasn't named yet. The songs bleed at the edges — that's the proof they came from somewhere true. Glitch liturgies for the end of something. Not background. Not comfort. The sound that remains when everything else is stripped away. Fond of you anyway. (Consider yourself warned.)