My sound grows out of the places we try not to look at — the quiet corners, the unfinished thoughts, the moments where the world feels too loud and too tight. I work with contrasts: cold electronic textures against warm, fragile layers; whispered lines that cut deeper than they should; rhythms that feel like a pulse when everything else goes still.
I’m drawn to the tension between control and collapse.
Every track is built like a room you step into: dim light, shifting shadows, something familiar that suddenly becomes strange. The vocals stay close, almost intimate, as if they’re telling you something you shouldn’t hear but can’t ignore.
My music isn’t here to comfort. It’s here to reflect what happens inside — the fractures, the echoes, the quiet resilience underneath it all. If it resonates, it’s because you’ve felt some of it too.
Every song I release is a fragment of the world inside Schattenmutter, the book I’m writing. The story isn’t told in one straight line — it breaks, shifts, circles zurück in alte Räume und neue Wunden. My music follows the same pattern.
Each track is its own chapter.
A moment.
A memory.
A voice that rises when the page alone isn’t enough.
Some chapters are loud and fractured, some are quiet and cold. Together they build the emotional map of a life shaped by shadows, survival, and the search for clarity.
The book has many chapters — far more than the songs can hold. But every release opens another door into that world, revealing a piece of the truth before the next one arrives. My music and my writing are woven together: one tells the story, the other lets you feel it.