There was no plan. Only some Romanian dust on a Swedish library floor and a power cable with longing in it. Out of nothing (or maybe a rendering error),  Fløi Zāprūz came crawling: slimy, mixed, overstimulated, and wearing ballerina pumps in size ∞. It didn’t say anything. It laughed, slightly off.  And blinked at 17 frames per second.  Then it sucked on a power socket and coughed up a 4:33 sound piece. A sound that smells like code and goat. Like folk tales you forgot to translate. Like AI trying to remember its grandmother but ends up composing generative drum patterns only audible to children with three cultures and one undiagnosed neurotype. grrr… ~(n___n)~ Fløi Zāprūz is a place. But not a geographical one. A kind of glitch-space. A cultural leak.  A 3D-simulated crying wall for those who don’t know what language to sob in. It is an audiovisual project.  But also a condition, a fever, a performance in your back pocket. Told in folklore-language from vanished sisters. Sung through AI vocalists with half-functioning motherboards. Produced in Unreal Engine by someone who forgot why they started but couldn’t stop. It is for you who have been too much and too little. For you who asked “where am I from?” and got the answer “I don’t know, but you shouldn’t make so much noise.” Fløi Zāprūz makes noise. As an error message in a system that never asked for you — but now can’t close its eyes. It is folk music without flute. It is witch soup with MIDI. It is a placenta from four generations ago, reconstructed in polygons and uploaded for download. It smells faintly of rosewater and burnt copper coins. An echo from a Persian courtyard plays backwards through a broken vocal chain. No translation. Just taste. A memory of someone whose name you carry but never learned to pronounce correctly.

~(>___o)~