Sixteen-bit chiptunes—those tinny, bright sounds—they’re the only thing that takes me back. Back to when the world was small, stupid-simple. No noise, no drama. Just joy. Bliss. Like nothing could touch me.

I don’t write ’em to relive trauma. I write ‘em to escape it. Musicians loop over bad shit ‘cause they think they can fix it—time travel with notes. Me? I’m doing the opposite. Every beep, every square-wave riff… it’s me trying to boot up that old, happy version of myself. Before everything got loud. Before it all got complicated.

Bootloader—like the thing in BIOS. The glue that holds the whole system together. That’s what it is for me. One of my core memories. So every time I write one, I’m reverting to my simplest functions—just to feel that again.