Yakabatanidzwa ruzha

This—this sound, this feeling—comes from the places we usually avoid. The emotional glitches. The late-night noise in your head. The parts of yourself you were told to clean up, mute, or delete. But nothing truly disappears. It just re-shapes. Warps. Echoes. And maybe that’s what this is. Not music. Not noise. But a transmission—from the in-between. From the discarded versions of ourselves. From the fragments that didn’t fit anywhere else.