“There are other worlds they have not told you of.” - Sun Ra

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he lays, half awake, gently smoking like an impact crater from some anonymous clump of ice and rock. comets, like those dirty snowballs you make as a kid in the south, using concrete to fill in the gaps. his counting sheep come in constellations - sirius, rigel, polaris, he names them one by one until the alarm fires. off to the cafe for 5 credits a day, enough to make rent and pay for that harmonic balancer. the whip as spaceship is too obvious, been done three or four cycles now, but he throws on his helmet for good luck anyway. he steps out into the midnight sun, third time this week. checks his phone: no luck, not another lunar eclipse till next month.

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Transmitting from Freeport Estates, on the outer rim of Out East, Demetrix makes the music he wants to hear, from here. Inspired by the worlds within and without, he combines the metaphysical and the mundane, the unique and the universal. Whether rapping, singing, or just chopping it up, honesty, introspection, and vulnerability are key. The sounds jump genres, channeling the greats, relaying between the space stations, riding with the 𝙁ட𝔼𝔼𝔼𝔼𝙏. And the uniforms are standard-issue comfort: anything and a t-shirt is the move. You ain't gotta know the words, as long as you bob your head.