Revela y conserva secretos, reformulándolos para su transmisión. Construye un medio que activa y enfoca la energía sonora. No hay dogma ni géneros aislados. La comunicación depende de la multiplicidad de mensajes en el océano sonoro. La ausencia de fronteras permite la asimilación, el reproceso y la recombinación del sonido hasta obtener nuevos significados. La música se libera del ciclo de producción-comercialización y adopta a la mutación como estructura y forma.

la música es materia el proceso es composición


escalator by simulacro: featuring nurs

Everything is garbage.
There's nothing there.

The only people are hiding from the world.
Seemingly not there, but there.
They watch to the cracks.
Hoping no one can see them.
Pretending not to be there.
I just wanna look.

Without me saying anything, they recognize me and I recognize them.
They know I'm like them.

It wasn't always like this.

There was a parade.
Everyone marching slowly like walking.
Skipping on that carpet, in this bright light.
Brightly lit.
Looking perfect and spotless and pretty.
Everyone smiling and shining.
Looking confident.
On an escalator that's just going up forever.
Each their own Donald Trump or Ivanka.

A picture of them.
I don't know how or when.
Not on it anymore.

They broke you slowly, over and over again.
So slowly you couldn't tell.
Cracking at first.
Cracking more.
And becoming weaker until they finally pushed you off.
Or you fell off?

You're not there.

Now you're dead or half dead.
Might as well be dead.
On the floor.
In pieces.
You can't put yourself back together.
Maybe you can grab a few pieces with your broken hands.
And that's it:
that's you.

They're fine tough.
Better than ever, actually.
The light is brighter.
The smiles are wider.

Everything up there is so good.

I don't even think they know.
They don't know what they did.
Willfully ignorant, or just ignorant.
It doesn't matter.
They don't give a fuck.
It doesn't matter to you either now.
If they found out they wouldn't believe it.
They can do no wrong.

And now you're here.

Was the escalator even leading anywhere?
Everything made sense.
Now nothing makes sense.
Nothing works.
You had this work.

You fell or they pushed you off the ledge?

Maybe it wasn't even leading anywhere.
Are there people still on it?
Do they just stay on it forever?
You can't see them anymore.
Maybe there was no one on it.
At least not that you can see.

And you can barely see that procession.
You can hear it.
It's in the distance.

Was it ever even there?
Maybe it never happened.
Was it real?
If it happened there was no pat on the back.
There's no evidence.
Nothing to show for it.
Didn't work out.

Now it's gone.
No one says:
"you did it, you were on there for a little while".
There's no cookie.
No reward.
It's just a "fuck you".

On that plateau everything made sense.
Nothing to question.
Everyone going somewhere.
Everyone's happy about it.
Not Anymore.

They gave you their sickness.
Made you believe you are less then
made you believe you are sick.
Like you're nothing.
Less perfect.

You can't see the people anymore.
Things don't work anymore.
Didn't work out.
Now it's gone.

Was that ever real?
You can only see what's in front of you.
Which is this hollow shit made of nothing.
People in hollow spaces pretending you're not there.
That's your world forever.

released September 6, 2018
voice and lyrics by nurs (
sonic materials by simulacro:

cover from a photo by Stig Nygaard
File:Copenhagen Metro escalators.jpg
some rights reserved