I don’t make music to please.
I make music because it’s my language.
For some, it’s yoga. For others, it’s martial arts.
For me, it’s composing.
Whenever I sit down to create a track, I feel grounded. Balanced.
Everything I’ve experienced in the past few days – moments, lessons, emotions – flows into the process without me even noticing. It’s not planned. It just happens.
Melodic house for the reflective souls
Most of the time, it starts with chords.
Sometimes it’s a track I hear that sounds like a night sky — dark, distant, full of silence and stars. That’s when I feel the urge to capture that image in my own way. To create something that feels like night, something atmospheric and intimate.
Of course, what I see may not be what you see.
And that’s the beauty of it:
Everyone has their own picture in mind when listening.
Soundscapes that resonate beyond today
My creative process has shifted.
In the past, I used to start with drums and percussions. Today, I begin with the emotional core. With chords that speak. Sometimes gentle, sometimes dramatic. Most often in minor — because melancholy lives there. And so much beauty lies in melancholy.
I often feel like I’m watching a cinematic film in my head.
A camera starts rolling. I become the director of a scene I haven’t scripted yet. That’s when I know I’m in the zone.


Music that becomes your soundtrack
I want my music to accompany people.
Through thoughts. Through calm moments. Through those quiet minutes before midnight when life feels real.
Not every piece is made for the big stage. Some are for walks in the fields. For long train rides. For moments when you just want to feel understood – without needing a single word.
My tracks aren’t made for one summer.
They’re meant for moments you’ll still remember five years from now.
And if one day you listen to one of my tracks and suddenly see an image in your mind –
then we’ve understood each other.
Even if we’ve never met.
This is what I mean when I say: I make music that’s meant to last.
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