Perpetually caught between continents and genres—one moment lost in Appalachian folklore, the next riding the bass-heavy streets of Nairobi, then stumbling into some experimental rabbit hole that probably shouldn't exist. I collect sounds the way others collect stamps: classical ragas from South India, Russian choir echoes, the delightfully weird and deliberately unmarketable. There's beauty in things that don't fit neatly, in artists who refuse to be categorized, in playlists that read like a fever dream. My taste is chaotic by design—part folklore wanderer, part underground digger, part lover of things that make people ask "what are you even listening to?"