Apostolis Tziogkidis

Quarter-life Crisis is an eruption in slow motion, a free-improvised descent where intensity doesn’t build, it gnaws. The music claws at the edges of coherence, surging in waves that feel less like expression and more like something breaking through. Every sound arrives sharp, volatile, uninvited, as if torn from a mind refusing to stay intact.

Textures grind against each other: distorted drones swallowing frantic gestures, violent bursts of rhythm dissolving and bouncing off one another. Nothing here is gentle. Nothing seeks catharsis. The intensity doesn’t guide you; it dismantles you, stripping away the illusion that any kind of meaning.

These pieces flicker between agony and emptiness — a storm with no center, a scream with no message. All that remains is motion, pressure, force: the raw physics of a self collapsing under its own weight.

This is not music about crisis. It is the crisis, recorded in real time, burning itself out in the dark.