Basslines breathe beneath the floor,
a pulse that wasn’t there before—
four-on-the-floor like a steady heart,
pulling strangers into a single start.
The kick drum speaks in ancient code,
through cables, clubs, and midnight roads,
where lights drip gold on sweating skin
and time dissolves in violin synths.
A hi-hat whispers—tick, tick, tick—
like seconds slipping, fast and slick,
while chords rise warm, a velvet wave,
a place to lose, a place to save.
No walls remain, just sound and heat,
a thousand souls, one moving beat,
no names, no past, no future’s claim—
just rhythm calling every name.
House music builds a fragile home,
in borrowed space, we’re not alone,
a looping truth, both fierce and kind:
we leave the world, but find our mind.