Scriabin's 8th (∞) isn't music, it's an organism that woke up and realized it's God. It begins before time, in a shimmering swamp of harmonies. The form eats itself ... introduction becomes coda becomes fetus becomes fossil ... each repetition a prayer whispered by a dying sun. Themes rise and fall like nervous systems learning how to dream. Gasps for air, melts into ecstasy, pure geometry: ∞ turning in on itself. Bergson's ghost is in the corner counting to seven and Scriabin's laughing because the harmony just achieved sentience. Time stops, folds, vibrates, restarts as a hallucination of symmetry. You're hearing the architecture of eternity.

Scriabin's 8th (∞) isn't music, it's an organism that woke up and realize it's God. It begins before time, in a shimmering swamp of harmonies. The form eats itself ... introduction becomes coda becomes fetus becomes fossil ... each repetition a prayer whispered by a dying sun. Themes rise and fall like nervous systems learning how to dream. Gasps for air, melts into ecstasy, pure geometry: ∞ turning in on itself. Bergson's ghost is in the corner counting to seven and Scriabin's laughing because the harmony just achieved sentience. Time stops, folds, vibrates, restarts as a hallucination of symmetry. You're hearing the architecture of eternity.