“The world becomes shadow… A glowing aquarium.”
– Rimbaud

Vaporwave, a.k.a. the symbiotic real, where everything is what it is, yet nothing coincides exactly with itself. There are no palm trees, Greek statues, or modern cuboid sofas, because everything consists of cyber-void & digital-mass. It’s a paradox. As the sound outside of itself emotes, a signifier finally, almost vainly, appears.

Lotus Flowers is lounge or spa music, where everything gleams slowly and glassily and ghastly. Sometimes its seven songs introduce us to vistas and scenic viewpoints, aloft and outside of the trembling fear of the social; but more often than not, we are inside, in a club that’s so big it looks like a sea of neon, made of the stuff of crystals — everything glimmering. A chalky future slides us into slumber’s chains, where we relax, in flight from reality, mere skeleton bones with eyes like empty ballrooms, authentic or artificial; either/or. We fade into the sci-fi of the IRL.

Lotus Flowers by Origami Girl

Daylight staggers out as stars lose their grip on the sky. A slow-moving guitar invites a hallucination. A shiny synth instills a sense of perambulation. We are permeable & alert, keenly attuned, ethereally embodied; as the moon swells into an odor, cities like leaf veins or oatmeal cookies glow purple in the lagoon’s greyness, and the air is freshly sweet and warm, as if made of berries, or hay, or wheat.

A relaxed hyperattention, happening in a mall; in a heartbeat; in a kingdom by the sea; in a lonely place; in a dark, dark wood; in a cistern; in a latch; in a time & place; in a face; in what I’ve been thinking; in an iPhone; in a yielding moment; in an ultrasonic bath; in a nutshell; in the blink of the eye; in a VHS tape; in a seashell; in a coagulating agent; in a Xerox machine; in a zenith; in a koala’s stomach; in a lounge-beat; in a house with no walls; in a gigantic porpoise; in a Szechuan restaurant; in a pool; in a potion; in a spa.

“The world becomes shadow… A glowing aquarium.”
– Rimbaud

Vaporwave, a.k.a. the symbiotic real, where everything is what it is, yet nothing coincides exactly with itself. There are no palm trees, Greek statues, or modern cuboid sofas, because everything consists of cyber-void & digital-mass. It’s a paradox. As the sound outside of itself emotes, a signifier finally, almost vainly, appears.

Lotus Flowers is lounge or spa music, where everything gleams slowly and glassily and ghastly. Sometimes its seven songs introduce us to vistas and scenic viewpoints, aloft and outside of the trembling fear of the social; but more often than not, we are inside, in a club that’s so big it looks like a sea of neon, made of the stuff of crystals — everything glimmering. A chalky future slides us into slumber’s chains, where we relax, in flight from reality, mere skeleton bones with eyes like empty ballrooms, authentic or artificial; either/or. We fade into the sci-fi of the IRL.

Lotus Flowers by Origami Girl

Daylight staggers out as stars lose their grip on the sky. A slow-moving guitar invites a hallucination. A shiny synth instills a sense of perambulation. We are permeable & alert, keenly attuned, ethereally embodied; as the moon swells into an odor, cities like leaf veins or oatmeal cookies glow purple in the lagoon’s greyness, and the air is freshly sweet and warm, as if made of berries, or hay, or wheat.

A relaxed hyperattention, happening in a mall; in a heartbeat; in a kingdom by the sea; in a lonely place; in a dark, dark wood; in a cistern; in a latch; in a time & place; in a face; in what I’ve been thinking; in an iPhone; in a yielding moment; in an ultrasonic bath; in a nutshell; in the blink of the eye; in a VHS tape; in a seashell; in a coagulating agent; in a Xerox machine; in a zenith; in a koala’s stomach; in a lounge-beat; in a house with no walls; in a gigantic porpoise; in a Szechuan restaurant; in a pool; in a potion; in a spa.