NOWON

There's parts of us all which we loathe.

There's parts of us all which we love.

Those parts aren't opposed, there just not aligned.

Time after time we get hurt, become wounded.

Are abandoned & bruised, left with our thoughts screaming "USELESS".

And then we polish those scars & admire their shine.

It's YOU who decides
What comes after 'DOOMED'

It isn't the place of your fear to define
What comes when the gloom isn't part of your life?

1 month ago | [YT] | 0

NOWON

There's parts of us all which we loathe.

There's parts of us all which we love.

Those parts aren't opposed, there just not aligned.

Time after time we get hurt, become wounded.

Are abandoned & bruised, left with our thoughts screaming "USELESS".

And then we polish those scars & admire their shine.

It's YOU who decides
What comes after 'DOOMED'

It isn't the place of your fear to define
What comes when the gloom isn't part of your life?

1 month ago | [YT] | 0

NOWON

Misfits, freaks, outcasts and all whom society deems less... I have something for you... 18/04/26

2 months ago | [YT] | 0

NOWON

PINKY SWEAR?

3 months ago | [YT] | 0

NOWON

Been working all night/
I can sleep when I die/

3 months ago | [YT] | 0

NOWON

Welcome to:
"Things I have unironically said when I don't know or can't remember a word in Spanish"

One:
"Barras de refuerza humanas"... Which means "Human Rebar"...... The word I was looking for was "Bones"🤣😭

Two:
"Mariposa antipática"... Which means "unfriendly butterfly... I was trying to say "Moth" 💀

Three:
"La cosa que pasa cuando el aire hace que pan sea incorrecto"... Which means "The thing that happens when air makes bread wrong"... I was trying to say the bread was stale.... 💀💀

Four:
"Otro ratón que es peor", which means "other mouse. That is worse"...a gerbil 😭

Five:
"Balas agujas"... Meaning "needle bullets"... Darts 😭

Six:
"La persona que Tira tu Abuelo"... "The person who throws away your grandpa"... A Mortician 💀😭

Seven:
"Matafuegos" "fire killer"... I was trying to say "firefighter" 😐

Eight:
"En ti mismo pero en realidad eres porquería" "When you believe in yourself but you actually suck"... "Overconfidence" is the word I was looking for 💀

Nine:
"cessparito"... "Tiny grass"... Moss 😐

Ten:
"Cabello perro" ..."Horse Dog".. a. Deer. 💀

Eleven:
"Como un mil millón anillos pero convertidos en un suéter". "Like a million rings(like rings for your fingers) but turned into a sweater".... Chainmail 💀

Twelve:
"Sombreros de dedo" ..."finger hats"... Nails 🤣

Thirteen:
"La gira gira"... "The turn turn"... A screwdriver... 😐

Fourteen:
"La fruta que comen aquiles y patroclo en la canción de aquiles creo que es una metáfora por ser gay"... "The fruit that Achilles and Patroclus eat in song of Achilles. I think it's a metaphor for being gay" ...A. Fig... 💀🤣🤣

3 months ago | [YT] | 0

NOWON

Let’s address the elephant in the room: why I choose to be anonymous.

Short answer?
Because faces ruin things.

Long answer—the one I’m clearly done repeating politely—goes like this.

I don’t hide behind masks because I’m afraid of being seen. I hide behind masks because I’ve seen what visibility does to art, to people, and to honesty. The moment a face enters the equation, the work stops being listened to and starts being judged. Not critiqued—judged. On attractiveness. On gender. On age. On vibe. On whether I look like what someone expects a voice, a lyric, or a belief system to look like.

That’s not art. That’s casting.

Anonymity is not a gimmick for me. It’s a filter. It strips the conversation down to what actually matters: the sound, the words, the symbols, the intent. No parasocial shortcuts. No projection buffet. No lazy conclusions drawn from cheekbones or eye contact. You either engage with the work, or you don’t. Good. That’s the point.

I don’t want to be relatable by accident. I want to be understood on purpose.

Masks and helms do something very specific: they interrupt consumption. They force a pause. They make people ask “why” instead of “who.” And yes, I’m aware of the irony—that anonymity itself attracts attention. But that attention is at least pointed in the right direction. Toward meaning. Toward myth. Toward interpretation instead of biography.

Here’s the part people don’t like hearing:
I don’t owe you access to me.

I don’t owe strangers my face, my name, my history, my vulnerability, or my body language so they can feel more comfortable consuming what I make. Comfort is cheap. Familiarity is lazy. I’m not interested in being your friend through a screen. I’m interested in making something that survives without me standing next to it, smiling.

The mask creates distance, and distance is honest. Distance keeps the work from being reduced to personality quirks or personal drama. Distance prevents the art from being flattened into “oh, that’s just how they are.” Distance lets the work stand on its own legs—or collapse if it deserves to.

And yes, there’s also protection in it. Not fear-based protection—clarity-based protection. I don’t want my real life mined for lore, trauma-porned for context, or weaponized for takes. I don’t want every lyric traced back to a real person and litigated in public. I don’t want my existence turned into supplementary material.

I’ve seen what happens to artists who give too much of themselves away too early. The audience stops listening and starts owning. They feel entitled to explanations, apologies, access. The mask says no. Cleanly. Permanently.

The helms go further. They aren’t just anonymity—they’re intentional identity. They signal that what you’re seeing is not me-as-person, but me-as-symbol, me-as-voice, me-as-function. Each one represents a different register of the work: control, fracture, aftermath, survival. They’re not costumes. They’re frameworks. Tools.

When I wear a helm, I’m not pretending to be something else. I’m refusing to be reduced to one thing.

There’s also this, and I won’t sugarcoat it:
Being visibly human invites bullshit.

People listen differently when they can categorize you. They soften you. They harden you. They argue with who they think you are instead of what you’re actually saying. Masks short-circuit that reflex. They make people confront the work without a shortcut to dismiss or fetishize it.

If that frustrates you, good. Frustration means the mask is doing its job.

I’m not anonymous because I want mystery points. I’m anonymous because I want durability. I want the music to outlive my relevance, my age, my appearance, my social capital. I want the ideas to travel without dragging my biography behind them like a tin can.

And finally—this is the part I’m most tired of explaining—I’m anonymous because I can be.

Because nothing about my work requires my face to function. Because anonymity is one of the last forms of control an artist has in a system that constantly demands more access, more confession, more performance of self.

So no, the masks aren’t coming off.
Not when things “take off.”
Not when people ask nicely.
Not when it would be easier.

They stay because the work is better with them on.

If that bothers you, you’re probably not the audience this was made for—and that’s not an insult. It’s just alignment.

The elephant’s been addressed.

3 months ago | [YT] | 0

NOWON

I make music under masks because I learned early that faces invite projection, and projection drowns meaning. Sound, symbol, and absence say more than autobiography ever could. My work lives somewhere between ritual and refusal—between wanting transcendence and mistrusting anyone who promises it cheaply.
KUNDALINI ODYSSEY marked a turning point. It wasn’t a metaphorical “awakening” in the self-help sense; it was an experiment with consequence. The coiled serpent—Kundalini—was invoked as a symbol of inner power, transformation, creative ignition. But I didn’t treat it as a benign force. I treated it as something dangerous. Something that answers back. The song and its visual counterpart were the act of waking it. Finishing the track mattered. Releasing it mattered. Once it was out, the ritual was closed. Whatever followed wasn’t imagination anymore—it was aftermath.
That aftermath is where Tsaan appears.
Tsaan is not a god, not a hero, not a higher self. Tsaan is a wanderer. A survivor. The one who keeps walking after the revelation has already passed and the cost has already been paid. The name comes from Hebrew—צאן—meaning “flock.” The many. The counted. The ordinary. It’s an intentionally ironic name for a solitary figure. Tsaan represents the tension between individuality and collectivity: being part of a system you didn’t choose, moving through a world built for obedience, hierarchy, and quiet sacrifice.
Where earlier personas explore control, illumination, or inner voices, Tsaan is what remains when those frameworks fail. Tsaan doesn’t glow. Tsaan doesn’t preach. Tsaan doesn’t awaken anything. He walks. He observes. He carries anger, not as spectacle, but as weather—earned, constant, and practical. A traveler’s anger. The kind that comes from being promised meaning and receiving mileage instead.
Visually, Tsaan is stripped back: balaclava, poncho, hat. No eyes, no expression, no futurism. The choice to cover the eyes while still seeing is deliberate. Tsaan is not blind. Tsaan is choosing not to be seen. In a world that demands visibility, branding, confession, and performance, Tsaan withholds. That withholding is not fear—it’s agency.
Tsaan’s voice first speaks fully in THE LONG WAY DOWN FROM GOD, a song that follows KUNDALINI ODYSSEY directly. If the first track is invocation, the second is reckoning. Not enlightenment, but gravity. Not ascension, but distance. It’s about realizing that spiritual awakening doesn’t remove you from systems, trauma, hunger, or history. It simply changes how you carry them.
Tsaan represents the aftermath of belief. The road after fire. The moment when transcendence has ended and life resumes, altered but unresolved. He is not seeking salvation. He is not asking forgiveness. He is walking anyway.
That’s the core of my work: not answers, but continuity. Not spectacle, but consequence. Masks aren’t there to hide me—they’re there to keep the work honest. Tsaan exists so the myth doesn’t lie about what comes next.

3 months ago | [YT] | 0

NOWON

ON BEHALF OF THE FREE PEOPLE OF PLANET EARTH: Fuck You, Dr. S. Johnson

Abstract

This paper argues that Samuel Johnson, compiler of A Dictionary of the English Language (1755), functioned not as a neutral observer of linguistic practice but as a centralizing authoritarian, imposing personal taste, moral judgment, and class prejudice onto a living, evolving system. Through prescriptivism masquerading as scholarship, Johnson froze language in amber, elevated himself as arbiter, and helped birth the myth that words require permission to exist. In short: he did not describe English—he occupied it.
O, en términos simples: cállate, cabrón.


---

I. Introduction: Language Is Not a Throne

Languages are commons, not kingdoms. They are shaped by usage, error, drift, accent, invasion, mishearing, invention, and rebellion. English in particular is a magpie language—stealing, mutating, surviving by refusing purity.

Samuel Johnson looked at this chaotic, beautiful organism and said, effectively:

> “No.”



What followed was not documentation but dominion.

Johnson did not ask how people speak.
He asked how they should speak, and then wrote it down with a quill dipped in class anxiety.

Esto no es ciencia.
Es autoritarismo con peluca.


---

II. The Myth of the “Doctor”

Let us address the powdered elephant in the room.

Samuel Johnson was not a doctor in any meaningful academic sense. His title was honorary, bestowed later as a gesture of prestige, not earned through systematic linguistic research.

An honorary doctorate is not expertise.
It is academia saying, “Fine, take the robe, please stop talking.”

Calling Johnson “Dr.” in linguistic matters is like calling a landlord an architect because he owns the building.

O como decimos en español:
mucho título, poco rigor.


---

III. Prescriptivism as Control

Johnson’s dictionary was not descriptive. It was normative.

He:

Judged words as “low,” “barbarous,” or “improper”

Excluded usage common among the working class

Injected moral opinion into definitions

Treated language change as decay rather than evolution


This is the linguistic equivalent of:

Policing accents

Criminalizing dialects

Declaring certain speakers “incorrect humans”


Johnson’s dictionary didn’t ask permission from speakers.
It declared authority over them.

This is why the comparison to authoritarian systems is not hyperbole. Like any dictator, Johnson:

Centralized power

Declared himself arbiter

Suppressed deviation

Framed dissent as ignorance


Un dictador del diccionario.
Un tirano semántico.
Un señor muy serio diciendo “porque lo digo yo.”


---

IV. The Linguistic Nazi Problem (Yes, We’re Going There)

The issue is not that Johnson was strict.
The issue is that he believed variation was corruption.

That belief—that there is one “correct” form and all others are inferior—is the same ideological structure that underpins authoritarian purity movements everywhere.

Language purity is never neutral.
It always serves:

Class hierarchy

Cultural dominance

Erasure of the “other”


Johnson didn’t invent this impulse—but he canonized it.

He turned English into a border checkpoint.

Papeles, por favor.
¿Quién te enseñó a hablar así?


---

V. Time, Change, and the Lie of Permanence

Johnson attempted to “fix” English.

This is hilarious.

Language is not a chair leg.
It is a river.

Trying to fix it is like yelling at water for moving.

The result?

Future generations treating spelling like divine law

Children punished for phonetic logic

Writers second-guessing invention

Speakers apologizing for accents


All because one man with constipation and opinions thought words needed supervision.

Qué vergüenza, hermano.


---

VI. Against Johnson: A Living Language Manifesto

On behalf of the Free People of Planet Earth, we assert:

1. Words belong to speakers, not scholars.


2. Meaning precedes spelling.


3. Usage outranks authority.


4. New words are not corruption—they are proof of life.


5. Any system that punishes creativity in language is anti-human.



Johnson wanted obedience.
We choose expression.

Johnson wanted permanence.
We choose becoming.

Johnson wanted a dictionary to rule.
We choose language to breathe.


---

VII. Conclusion: Fuck You, Respectfully (Not Really)

Samuel Johnson was not evil.
But he was wrong.

Wrong about language.
Wrong about control.
Wrong about who gets to decide meaning.

His dictionary helped literacy—but at the cost of fear.
Fear of being “incorrect.”
Fear of sounding wrong.
Fear of inventing.

So yes. On behalf of poets, rappers, bilingual gremlins, dyslexics, dialect-speakers, slang-smiths, and anyone who ever knew how a word should sound even if it didn’t look right on paper:

Fuck you, Dr. S. Johnson.

Con cariño, pero también con fuego:
Vete a la mierda con tu diccionario fascista.

Language survived you.
It will survive us.
And thank fuck for that.

3 months ago | [YT] | 0

NOWON

wrote a song about the purge....

3 months ago | [YT] | 0