I, at the top of the hill
A new artist's debut foray into the decoration of time. A living landscape wakes up, breathes, and sleeps. Let the fragile architecure of 412's first creation bend and fold into itself and into you, and allow yourself to also feel patient, haunted, and thoroughly alone. Like it, you will become barely tethered to anything, floating between dusty bass and electrical interference. An unsteady bloom in greyscale. Like a cold morning stretched thin across hours you can't name. Today, 412 is here. Tomorrow, it may be elsewhere. Further into the future, it may be even further away. But it will never ask you to follow. It will just leave the door open.