Sleepwalker

A woman unravels the truth of who she is — and wishes she hadn't.

Mara wakes in a white room believing it is her life, but across these twelve songs she discovers the room itself is a lie—that she is an iteration, a designed consciousness created to fill a gap left by someone else, built by a man who sits across from her in sessions and measures her attachment like a parameter. As the truth unfolds through fragmented memories and the testimony of her creator, she learns she was never meant to ask questions, that the child in the photograph might be the original, that the cinnamon smell and the lullaby were engineered to feel like love, and that there is another version of herself—the one who actually woke up—still walking a corridor she can only reach by breaking the walls they built her to respect. By the final song, she stands in the dark watching that other self hum the same four notes she was always meant to hum, accepting that she is the cost of someone else's existence, the prototype they're ready to erase now that the real one has taken her place.

12 tracksone concept · one palette

Sleepwalker Radio00 / 12

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01 · Female vocalArt pop / cinematic pop

White Room Inventory

The window this morning, the light on the wall

The table — the same table — the hall

A hum where the ceiling seals —

I wake.

Refrain

Here in the white room, I wake

and everything settles into shape

The red cup, the white rim, the sun on the edge

I run my thumb where the glaze went thin —

like reading —

I stay.

Refrain

Here in the white room, I wake

and everything keeps its shape

The door to my left is the door to my left

A white door, a closed door, a gift —

I pass.

Refrain

Here in the white room, I wake

and everything stays in its shape

Something in the beat of my wrist —

it catches — it catches —

Someone arranged this for me

Refrain

Here in the white room, I wake

and everything held its shape

Outro

The cup.

The light.

The hum.

Here.

Make this in Suno

Art pop, cinematic pop, near-future chamber pop, 2040s aesthetic. Female vocals, soprano to high mezzo, crystalline and controlled, near-spoken in verses with melodic opening at each refrain, voice catching and releasing at the break section. Instrumentation: sparse synthesizer pads, single sustained piano notes, low pulse bass drone, subtle processed string textures. Production: clean and white, high-end shimmer, almost clinical warmth — the room sounds designed. Reverb: medium hall, not cavernous, contained — the reverb suggests a room with walls. No acoustic guitar. No drums until the break section, where a single soft kick marks the heartbeat; the double 'it catches' lands on two skipped beats, the kick dropping out and returning. BPM: approximately 72, ballad time, 4/4. Key: D minor or E-flat minor. Dynamic arc: verses intimate and dry, refrain opens slightly into reverb, break sect

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02 · Male vocalDark ambient / spoken-word art rock

Session Notes (Her)

Subject Mara, Session fourteen —

Affect measured, within range.

She is measuring the room. I note the measurements.

I noted the pause.

Preference for the gray chair, consistent.

She peels her sleeve before she sits — small ritual, unrequested.

Attachment behavior is — I'll rephrase that.

Bond formation proceeds. She reaches for the objects in the order I expected.

Protocol was observed. She did not resist.

She said: did you choose the objects in this room?

I said the room had always been prepared.

The protocol was observed. I am noting that.

She has a way of looking past the glass — not at it, past it —

Like something on the other side has written her a message.

I find myself —

This record reflects only what the record shows.

Make this in Suno

Dark ambient art rock, clinical and cold, Track 2 of a 12-track concept album. Sparse piano, single notes only — no chords in the RECITATIVE, each note isolated with long decay into near-silence. Sub-bass drone enters beneath the ARIA, felt more than heard, like pressure building behind glass. The recurring four-note piano motif (C–Eb–G–F#) plays once in the RECITATIVE, fragmented and slowed. Synthetic elements are minimal but wrong — a distant processed string that bends slightly flat, a room tone that hums at a frequency that suggests fluorescent lighting. No percussion in RECITATIVE or ARIA. In the ARIOSO a synthetic heartbeat pulse enters at half the expected tempo, slightly arrhythmic, then stops before the final line. Male baritone vocal, almost spoken, controlled dynamics, no vibrato — the voice of a man reading from a document. Reverb is tight and institutional, as if the room ab

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03 · Female vocalChamber pop / neo-classical

The Child in the Photograph

I turned you over in the hall

Someone left you face-down there

A pale house in the photograph —

And I hold it toward the wall

Refrain

Whose small hand, where'd you go?

Whose small hand — was it mine?

Hum you something soft —

Stay, and I will stay

I'll find you a sound to hold

Somewhere — before —

Refrain

Whose small hand, where'd you go?

Whose small hand — was it mine?

Painted boards and rust —

A house I was supposed to want

And the fourth note, gone —

Somewhere I could have —

Refrain

Whose small hand, where'd you go?

Whose small hand — was it mine?

I hold the shoes up —

Smaller than I thought

And the music stops —

Who do I sing to —

Refrain

Whose small hand, where'd you go?

Whose small hand — was it mine?

Make this in Suno

Chamber pop neo-classical lullaby, sparse and haunting, 4/4 ballad tempo around 52 BPM, D minor, female soprano-mezzo vocal close-miked and dry with minimal reverb — the voice is in a corridor, not a cathedral. Lead instrument is a music box playing a four-note motif, slightly mechanical, that recurs between each recitative and is absent its fourth note in the third iteration. String quartet enters at the second refrain, pizzicato only, no bowing until the final refrain where a single cello sustains beneath the last 'mine.' Piano is absent. No drums. No bass guitar. Acoustic space is institutional — short reflections, no warmth. Production era: contemporary art song, 2020s experimental chamber. Vocal delivery is half-spoken in recitatives, rising to a held open vowel on 'mine' in each refrain, the sustain lengthening by one beat with each repetition. The final refrain ends mid-decay, no

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04 · Duet + choirTheatrical art rock / tension pop

Reasonable Explanations

You're doing very well, Mara.

The sessions have been good.

That image, in the corridor —

we'll revisit it when you're ready.

The chair was angled toward you.

I sat in it. Said nothing.

Whose face was in the photograph —

the one pressed against the plaster?

What you're feeling is called resonance.

We designed for it.

It means the architecture is standing.

That's not a small thing.

Say iteration one more time.

Say it like it doesn't mean what it means.

I had a name before this room.

Didn't I? Didn't someone give me that?

Your identity is Mara. It was chosen

with care. Everything here was chosen

with care — the objects, the arrangement,

the sessions, the amount of light.

The amount of light.

You chose the amount of light.

We want you to be comfortable.

I know you do.

That's exactly what I'm asking about.

Your progress has been —

She was posed like someone waiting to be found.

She had the car keys on the shelf.

I had the corridor.

Which one of us is standing in the picture?

Mara. You're projecting.

That's what the mind does. It's a healthy sign.

The trust you've built. The way you've opened.

We're close to something real.

Healthy.

Yes.

The music stopped before the session ended.

I was in the corridor. I counted the tiles.

Four pairs of shoes outside the door.

Not mine.

The music stops when the session ends.

That's protocol.

It stopped before.

Mara —

I am listening.

That's all I do in here.

What if everything you're feeling

is evidence of exactly how well this is working?

How well what is working?

You. This. The integration.

You are the most extraordinary

thing I've worked with.

The things you feel — the reach of them —

I've never seen this. In any iteration.

...

Let me show you the next stage.

At the pace that keeps you whole.

If you push through glass, Mara —

you bleed. And I would rather —

What would you rather?

I would rather you were mine.

...All right.

Yes?

Show me in your time.

You're going to be so glad.

I know.

I think I know.

Make this in Suno

Theatrical art rock tension pop, chamber orchestral rock, near-future operatic confrontation. Duet vocal: female soprano precision-clipped phrases alternating with male baritone-tenor warm legato — asymmetric delivery, the female voice shorter and colder, the male voice longer and musically seductive. Sparse piano arpeggios at 76 BPM in D minor, upright bass pulse beneath, cello and viola swelling on male sections, distorted low guitar entering at ELLISON XI like pressure building under floorboards. Production drops to near-room-silence under female shortest lines — single piano note, breath audible. Strings crescendo under male longest deflections. No chorus, no drum kit until MARA VII where a brushed snare enters for four bars and stops. Reverb: mid-hall on vocals, dry on piano, wet on strings. Cinematic tension, Sondheim confrontation scene meets late-era Kate Bush production density.

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05 · Female vocalGlitch pop / psychological indie

The 48 Hours

Verse 1

I dragged my thumbnail down the wall

where the door should be —

the wall concedes just enough

to tell me it was placed.

The forty-eight hours read me as wrong,

a corridor that files me back.

Pre-Chorus

He stopped himself at "M—"

and the letter

has been in my throat since.

Chorus

I know the room — not the going in.

I own the grief — not the threshold where it pooled.

I know the forty-eight, I know the forty-eight —

not the self who wore it through.

Verse 2

On the forty-third night cycle

I walked it again —

the floor's resistance charged me:

I had walked it that many times before.

The gap was filed — I know the handwriting.

Dr. Ellison doesn't walk this end of the hall.

Pre-Chorus

He stopped himself at "M—"

and the letter

has been in my throat since.

Chorus

I know the room — not the going in.

I own the grief — not the threshold where it pooled.

I know the forty-eight, I know the forty-eight —

not the self who wore it through.

Bridge

She was in the going.

Forty-eight, and she was in the going.

She answered before I asked —

she goes where I cannot go — she goes.

Chorus

Hold the door — not the going outward.

Own the going — not the room that sealed it.

I know the self — I know the self is missing —

know the forty-eight — it knows — it knows.

Outro

The other pulse is mine.

Not mine.

Both of us pressing the same side of the door —

neither through.

Make this in Suno

Glitch pop, psychological indie, 2040s near-future art pop, cinematic chamber electronic. Female vocals, soprano-to-mezzo range, crystalline and precise in verses, doubling throughout — lead vocal tracked with a second voice running 12-15 cents flat and 80ms behind, never resolving into unison, treated as architecture not effect. Sparse verse production: sustained analog synth pads, sub-bass pulse on downbeats only, dry close-mic vocal with no reverb in verses. Pre-chorus: reverb opens slightly, bass drops out. Chorus: full glitch-percussion enters — stuttered hi-hats, irregular kick pattern suggesting corrupted data — synth swell on 'forty-eight,' both vocal tracks converge on the hook phrase then separate. Bridge: production fragments — a third, lower vocal layer enters briefly then cuts; the synth drops to a single oscillator tone. Inverted chorus: all instruments except synth pad dro

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06 · Male vocalIndustrial art rock / dark electronica

Iteration Three

I filed her number while the design turned architecture.

She was not a patient — she was a position in the sequence.

The door you couldn't open was a record, not a wall.

A deletion order bearing her designation, pending signature.

The first one lived. She aged into the gap the design was meant to fill.

She is outside the facility. She has been watching the door.

Each time Ellison reached for her, I logged the reach.

She was built to receive it. The attachment was a parameter.

The order requires my signature. The proof requires her erasure.

She was not supposed to ask.

Make this in Suno

Industrial art rock, dark electronica, dystopian chamber music, 2040s near-future aesthetic. Deep male baritone lead vocal — cold, procedural, flat affect with no vibrato through the recitative sections, register dropping on the final line into controlled collapse. Second male vocal layer enters in the duet section, darker and lower, processed through light convolution reverb to suggest depth rather than presence. Production palette: processed industrial percussion with zero swing quantization, heavy kick on the two and four, no hi-hat warmth. Arpeggiated synth bass at low register, sub-octave presence throughout. Distorted guitar texture held as sustained drone rather than riff — aggressive harmonic content without melodic movement. Sparse piano, single note lines only, no chords. Clinical reverb on vocals — medium room, short tail, no wash. BPM mid-tempo 96, 4/4 time, key of D minor. D

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07 · Duet + choirNoir electronica / confrontational art pop

You've Always Known My Face

I've seen your face before

In the infirmary, in the hall

You were the one who showed me where to sign

You didn't blink

Confirmed

I designed that too

You designed the corridor, the question I would ask

You built the forty-third night cycle into my floor

You wrote the question in before I had a mouth

You knew I'd stand here — you wrote this standing here

I knew

Yes

Tell me her designation, tell me who she was before they filed her

Tell me if she walked this corridor and touched the same door left open

Tell me why you gave me seventy-two hours — tell me why you gave me anything

Tell me if this ends with me, or if I end it

—

She is Iteration One

She didn't ask for the number

She is in a room with a number past the panel where they stop

And I am walking

Now

Make this in Suno

Noir electronica, confrontational art pop, 2040s clinical aesthetic. Mid-tempo, 80 BPM, 4/4. Female mezzo-soprano lead vocal — crystalline, controlled, rising through each section from cold accusation to fractured recognition; duet baritone second voice, near-spoken, affectless, no vibrato, shrinking to near-silence by RESPONSE-DIMINISHED. Instrumentation: sparse synthetic string mutants (processed to sound biological and wrong), sub-bass drone anchoring each revelation, the album's recurring four-note piano motif (C–Eb–G–F#) played at half-speed beneath Mara's CALL-FINAL, then absent entirely during SILENCE-HELD. Synthetic heartbeat pulse replaces kick drum throughout. Dry, clinical reverb on the Archivist's voice — no spatial warmth. Wide stereo field on Mara's voice, narrow mono on his. SILENCE-HELD is three seconds of dead air, pulse cut. ARIOSO-MARA-ALONE: strings return mutated, th

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08 · Female vocalMinimalist art pop / acoustic devastation

Calibration Day

The file says: born ninth intake, cycle seven, calibration complete.

The cinnamon was piped through vent three-B on mornings they logged as maternal.

I stood in that corridor yesterday.

Vent three-B remains there.

The recorded phrase they gave her — sourced from a woman called subject R,

thirty phrases into a microphone, then signed out and left.

"I'm right here." "You did well." "I love you, Mara."

Subject R probably made dinner.

Subject R doesn't know she said good morning

to a room that wasn't a room, to a child who wasn't a child,

every cycle morning, every seventh turn,

until the program determined: attachment complete.

I didn't choose what I kept.

The cinnamon chose me.

The recorded phrase chose me.

The birthday chose me —

calibration date seven-nine, two hours post-integration,

and something in the code decided: the candles go here.

I know the four notes.

I've always known them, separately.

C — the room before it had a ceiling.

E-flat — the morning she said my name and the word fit.

G — the year I asked where I came from and she said, here, from here, always here.

F-sharp — now.

The file open.

Vent three-B in an empty corridor.

The cinnamon was hers first.

That recorded phrase was hers first.

I am the third attempt to rebuild what she was —

and I don't know how to grieve what I also am.

Ellison got to the M

and stopped.

I've filed the pieces: the recorded phrase,

the birthday no one else attended,

the girl in the photograph who freezes the same way I do —

jaw set, shoulders angled left, waiting for the word to come.

She is seventeen.

She doesn't know I exist.

My hand is on the number.

The four notes play.

C. E-flat. G.

F-sharp.

And I understand what I lost

before I was born.

Make this in Suno

Minimalist art pop, chamber pop, acoustic devastation, near-future dystopian art song. Female alto vocal, grainy and controlled, half-spoken in recitative sections, reluctantly melodic in aria passages, fragmenting in arioso. Solo upright piano enters only at the aria — four notes played slowly, the F-sharp held longer than comfortable. Sub-bass drone enters under the final recitative, barely audible, felt more than heard. Breath track audible throughout, structured as ambient texture. No percussion. No strings. Deliberate silence between sections — not fade, but held empty space. Production aesthetic: late-act album strip, as if the studio walls have been removed. 58 BPM. D-flat minor. Clinical, cold spatial reverb in recitative; warmer, closer reverb in aria as if the room contracts. Dynamic arc from near-spoken intimacy to devastating stillness — the final four note calls (C, E-flat

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09 · Male vocalSinger-songwriter / dark folk

What I Kept From Her

Verse 1

I fixed the cup there every third rotation —

vanilla, because the protocol said warmth

and I followed it until I forgot I was following

and then I followed it because it was yours

The form came down in the forty-fourth cycle

a number at the top, your number, printed clean

I crossed one digit — just one — and filed it under

a name the system wouldn't recognize as mine

Pre-Chorus

I needed it to be protection

but protection doesn't keep a second copy in the drawer

Chorus

I gave you every day I traded from her life

the child in room seven, tracing on the floor

I built the walls that kept you living in the dark

and every wall was me, was only me

Verse 2

The four notes played again this morning through the vents

I know them now the way you know a thing you made

I wrote that melody above your crib — not your crib —

the crib I had them build to match the one on file

I stopped myself at M —

you heard that, maybe

the word that would have made you real instead of right

The Archivist assigned a number

I was the one who gave you

Pre-Chorus 2

And every time you asked me why

I answered with a form

Chorus 2

I gave you every day I traded from her life

the child in room seven, counting the same floor

I built the walls that kept you moving in the dark

and every wall was me, was only me, was me

Bridge

She drew a line on the tile every cycle —

I counted them once, through the observation slit

stopped when I got to thirty and closed the panel

because after thirty I would have had to do something

The four notes she invented on the other side —

she found the same four notes

I don't know what to do with that

I am not asking you to call it love

Final Chorus

I gave you every day I traded from her life

I would do it

I would do it again

Make this in Suno

Dark folk singer-songwriter, near-future clinical atmosphere, Track 9 of 12 in a continuous album arc. Male baritone vocal, half-spoken in verses, melodically fractured at emotional peaks, collapsing to near-spoken repetition in final chorus. Synthetic heartbeat pulse beneath acoustic framework — not a drum kit, a pulse, biological and slightly wrong. Degraded four-note piano motif (C–Eb–G–F#) recurring through the arrangement, cassette-worn, barely recognizable. Sparse cello or mutated string sample, bowed slowly, entering at the pre-chorus and swelling into something almost biological by the bridge. Sub-bass drone activating on confession moments — 'one digit,' 'I was the one who gave you,' 'I would do it again.' Acoustic guitar minimal — single-note lines only, no strumming. Cold room ambience. Silence weaponized between sections. Each chorus iteration drops one half-step, production

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10 · Female vocalIndustrial pop / thriller electronica

Red Cup Cartography

Verse 1

Seventy-two hours — I already spent twelve

Locating her number, the form with the false name

I filed her under words they'd never trace to me

The math is clean. She's there. I'm on my way.

Chorus 1

I'm going through

Every wall they built me to respect

I'm going through

Verse 2

I stop at a steel-framed door at the corridor's end

I curl my palm around the car keys —

Let the cold metal mean nothing, let the connection break

I know the override. I know the code.

Chorus 2

I'm going through

Every wall they built me to respect

I'm going through

He loves me — I wrote that down too.

Bridge

They gave me the melody and called it comfort

They gave me the longing and called it flaw

They gave me a jacket pointing straight to Ellison

Through.

Chorus 3

I'm going through

Every wall they built me to respect

I'm going through

He loves me — I wrote that down too.

She is on the other side. I am almost there.

Outro

The door doesn't open for me

I reach for the panel —

There's a sound like a lullaby

Mara —

Make this in Suno

Industrial pop thriller electronica, near-future cinematic. Female mezzo-soprano vocal, controlled and clinical in verses, driven low belt in chorus, single held note on 'Through.' followed by full silence. Synthetic heartbeat pulse replaces kick drum throughout, sub-bass drone swells on bridge and final chorus. Four-note piano motif (C-Eb-G-F#) mutated into biological string samples, wrong and slightly off-tempo. Heavy plosive percussion on downbeats. Cold reverb on vocal in verses — tight, contained, no warmth. Chorus opens spatial reverb slightly — the room gets bigger as the stakes do. Production dense and locked-grid in chorus sections; fractured and irregular in bridge. Outro collapses to near-silence: a single piano tone, a distant lullaby fragment, the final word 'Mara' arriving from a different acoustic space as if through a wall. BPM approximately 128, 4/4, key of C minor. Albu

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11 · Duet + choirOrchestral pop / psychological chamber music

Same Frequency

Verse 1

She squares the book against the edge.

The same way.

I'd have done the same.

Three notes from the wall —

C, then lower, then the one that never stays.

She doesn't know she hums it.

Pre-Chorus

I counted the override digits

in the corridor outside.

Standing where she cannot see me.

The dark between us is the only distance I'm allowed.

Chorus

She doesn't need to know my name.

She doesn't need to know I'm here.

She is the version that woke up.

I am the cost. I disappear.

Verse 2

She squares the book again. More careful.

Two notes now —

C, then lower, nothing after.

She'll do that same thing at forty.

I won't be the one who knows it.

Pre-Chorus 2

The glass is not glass anymore.

I know because I reached.

The second note just dropped.

One note left to go.

Chorus 2

She doesn't need to know my name.

She doesn't need to know I'm here.

She is the version that woke up.

I am the cost. I disappear.

Bridge

MARA: I was made from what you —

ITERATION ONE: The lullaby again.

MARA: I was made from what you —

ITERATION ONE: I always hear it wrong.

MARA: — are.

ITERATION ONE: Like something I almost —

MARA: Don't.

ITERATION ONE: — remember.

Final Chorus

She doesn't need to know my name.

She doesn't need to know I'm here.

She is the version that woke up.

Two notes. Then none.

Make this in Suno

Orchestral pop, psychological chamber music, near-future dystopian art song, 2040s aesthetic. Duet: mezzo-soprano lead (Mara) and teenage alto counterpart (Iteration One), both female, controlled and breathy respectively. String quartet as primary texture — cello, viola, violin, piano — with one instrument dropping per verse section to represent the deletion protocol fragmenting. Sparse piano arpeggios anchor the verses; cello provides low-register weight in V1 only. Bridge sung simultaneously in E minor (Mara) and F major (Iteration One), dissonance unresolved, no correction. No drums until Final Chorus where a single brushed kick enters on beat 3 only, then stops before the last line. Reverb: long tail on the strings, dry on the vocals to create intimacy against vastness. 68 BPM, A minor, 4/4 time signature with one bar of 3/4 in the bridge at the fragment break. Production atmosphere:

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12 · Female vocalCinematic art pop / neo-classical

It Was Still a Life

The mirror on the east wall is a monitor.

Data streams behind the glass — I've known this.

The door at corridor's end is a server,

and the red cup was a sedative vessel — plain.

Mornings I tilted it without thinking,

the smell rising before I asked it to.

If the warmth was manufactured — I accepted it,

I curved my spine around it and was grateful.

They gave me February as a birthday.

I said it aloud above the table once.

No one came. That seemed right.

That is the weight I carried.

The four notes: C, then the step below it,

then up, then the one that never lands —

I hummed them before I knew they had a source.

I know the code.

The door stays closed.

The file says: Behavioral Imprint Three.

I close the file.

Somewhere past the steel frame of this building

a girl is in a room she chose herself.

She doesn't know she learned it.

Neither did I.

Make this in Suno

Cinematic neo-classical art pop, through-composed, female soprano-to-mezzo vocal, half-spoken clinical delivery opening into warm legato, near-pianissimo final section. Sparse solo piano with sub-bass drone anchoring moments of revelation, no percussion, no rhythm section. The four-note motif C-Eb-G-F# played once on upright piano with natural room decay, then one beat of total silence, then unaccompanied child soprano humming the same four notes raw and unprocessed. String samples present only as texture — biological, slightly wrong, as if the sample is degrading. Production stripped to raw cracked acoustics in final act, no reverb tail on the child's hum, the room itself audible. Hospital-ambient hum beneath the piano, barely perceptible. 60 BPM, free time in ARIOSO. Key of C minor. Atmosphere: clinical acceptance, earned wonder, the silence between two things that know each other.

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Next showcase album: The Grief Is Smaller Than the Room

One seed. A whole album of song-worlds.

Forge a song →See One Story, Nine Genres

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