murn / fragile pauses on tape

MURN

Songs recorded before they know what they are—sometimes almost air, sometimes all machinery—panic and tenderness taped at the same volume.

faulty halo late-night machinery off-grid chorus

shifting tracks for tired bodies

version 0.1 era_01: chrome saints

Small unstable field where songs land the way they fall: distorted hymns, slow hovering pieces, broken club leftovers. Some arrive fragile, some furious; MURN keeps the wrong ones too.

status: unstable

scene_01 / chrome saints

CHROME SAINTS

Slow, violent prayer about selling faith under neon: smoke on acrylic skin, wired veins, industrial drums and guttural screams trying to burn the altar down.

smoke kisses neon skin wired veins / velvet knives chrome saints hum forbidden hymns

SAINTS

demo_fragment mute

fragments / word debris

Combining pieces that shouldn’t fit until, for some reason, they suddenly do.

margin note

Every era sounds like a different mood swing on tape — soft, violent, weightless, sometimes all at once — played back until it almost hurts in a beautiful way.

if any of this hits you, even a little, you’re already inside the choir

email: signal@murn.space
strange_use: Projections, audiovisual pieces, performance, odd cinema, private rituals. If you want to host MURN inside something of yours — or deform it into a new shape — write.

unstable tempos · wrong reverb · soft hysteria

ghost_room / unhidden fragment

Sometimes the song remembers the room it came from. This one stayed quiet until you pushed the grid too many times.

field_note_01 inner architecture

i.

There was a room without walls,
a hush-engine humming under my ribs—
soft static,
bone-colored.
Some nights it shimmered like mercy,
others it stitched shadows
behind my eyes.

ii.

They said the door was open,
but the air held its own lock.
A clear cage,
hand-me-down fear,
a geometry of almosts,
built from fingerprints
i never made.

iii.

Inside, a small echo—
something like a pulse,
something like a boy
with rain-soaked hands
and no one to dry them.
He whispered in a dialect
of cracked lullabies,
half-invented,
half-inherited.

iv.

When the world tilted,
i felt him fold into me,
a negative of my own silhouette.
He carried a quiet that rotted.
I carried a quiet that burned.
Neither of us knew
which one was supposed
to survive.

v.

Then came the unmaking:
not loud,
not heroic,
but a slow bleed
of invisible wires
unhooking from skin.
A molting.
A soft riot.
A fracture that let light leak
instead of fear.

vi.

Now the cage is still there—
glass ghosts rarely leave—
but it’s hollow,
weightless,
a relic of transparent wars.
And the boy?
He walks with me now,
no longer trembling,
barefoot on the chrome dust
of the path ahead.

Not healed—
just unhidden.
Not saved—
just unbroken enough
to keep going.