I was born in the hush of Siberian winds, in the border town of Irkutsk near Mongolia, caught between Lake Baikal and places where people still remember the voices of shamans.
My sound grew at the crossroads of northern melancholy, Buddhist practice, and long stretches of self‑imposed isolation.

For me, music isn’t an escape from the world but a way of paying close attention — a meditation in low frequencies and tape hiss.
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I’m drawn to texture and negative space: cold dub, minimal drum’n’bass, warm, time‑worn synths and ghost melodies that feel like they were found on an old childhood cassette.
It’s music of memory and displacement, where the pulse feels more like the rhythm of a dream than a club hit, and every pause matters as much as every sound