GLOBAL NOMAD SOUL PROLOGUE - AI SLOP IS DANGEROUS (1) DYSTOPIA

Описание: // DEAR FELLOW HUMANS
// WELCOME TO OUR
// CYBER FOLK
// AI OPERA

Album: AI Slop is Dangerous I ( Dystopia)
WE BEGIN TRANSMISSION///

Where the grid breaks, where broadcast bleeds — Global Nomad Soul.
A frequency drift of myth spliced to bass, jungle echoes encoded with memory scraps of gods.
In the static between nations, in the beat between breaths,
the mother tongue glitches and you dance with your teeth.

[CUT]

Tape rips.
Sound folds back on itself like a wounded animal learning to speak.
Loose fragments of prophecy spin on the reel —
bleached bone syllables, airport announcements, desert radios whispering to the moon.
Someone mutters a half-burned prayer in a stairwell.
Someone else rewinds their childhood with a broken fingernail.
You hear both at once.

[SPLICE]

Try this:
Drumbeats stitched with border patrol chatter.
A goddess trapped inside a dial-tone.
Currency exchange rates chanted like mantras.
Footsteps of refugees dissolving into nightclub reverb.
All of it feeding into the same magnetic bloodstream.
All of it hungry.

[CUT]

Pages fall out of the myth.
The myth falls into the mixer.
The mixer spits out a landscape with no return address —
just stray coordinates vibrating under your skin,
just a line that says You Are Here
with no map to prove it.

[SPLICE]

Electrostatic blood hum.
Transmission from nowhere in particular:
“Soul migrating… soul unregistered… soul unauthorized for terrestrial playback.”
Your hands twitch like they’re tuning invisible knobs.
You pick up a station that knows your name
but not your body.

[CUT]

Look:
The gods were never wiped out —
they were bootlegged, taped over, smuggled through customs in the chorus of a bootleg track.
They flicker in the glitch between kick drum and silence.
They hitchhike through the rhythm like viruses looking for a host.

[SPLICE]

Global Nomad Soul is the **accident you commit on purpose**,
the scrambled broadcast you mistake for revelation,
the wrong tape spooled into the right machine
at the moment the world forgets its own language.

[CUT]

You hear it again.
A voice you don’t remember learning.

[SPLICE]

“Dance now,” it says.
“Before the tape runs out.”

And the tape never stops running —
it only breaks, rewinds, bleeds, reforms,
a living collage of everywhere you’ve been
and everywhere that’s already dreaming you.

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