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.