Mag-boots off. Gravity optional.

I make music because the floor is the only honest paperwork left after a bad shift. Four-on-the-floor. Octave bass in the sternum. String stabs. Male falsetto command hooks — move, closer, don't talk — carnal, not romantic. Kick first. Vocals apply for the job in verse one. Romance can wait in coat check.

Midnight Gravity. Mag-Boots Off. Heat Sink. Closer Don't Talk. Don't Read My Manifest. Tonight-only heat, sweat, mirror-ball crimes in converted cargo holds. Not Otho's lounge croon. Not Sylen's chart glitter heartbreak. Not Remy's bar rock. Disco wants the body, not the backstory.

This album is for underdeck clubs, spin-gravity liner ballrooms, engineers who dance once then pretend they were stretching, and anyone whose overtime bell can't find them on this floor. KLAG Dance. Bring skin. Leave tomorrow's manifest. Four bars more.