I keep landing here, and it would be convenient—comforting, even—if I could reduce it to a single cause. If I could pin it to one trauma, one diagnosis, one unlucky streak of “the wrong people,” and then feel like the solution is obvious: stop doing the thing that leads to this place. But the problem with convenient stories is that they’re usually designed to protect us from the more brutal truth, which is that patterns don’t repeat because we’re stupid. They repeat because s

I get asked sometimes what “genre” my music is. And the honest answer is: it depends on what part of the fire you walked in during. Sometimes it sounds like a circus. Sometimes it sounds like industrial insomnia. Sometimes it sounds like an old theater that should’ve closed years ago… but the lights are still on anyway, because someone forgot to let the cast go home. This playlist is *the clearest explanation I can give* of what I make and why I make it. This is *the show.* F

Lately I’ve been sitting with a sentence that keeps repeating itself in different forms, offered as advice, framed as wisdom, delivered with certainty: relationships are supposed to be reciprocal. Equal effort. Match energy. Don’t over-give. Meet people where they are, even if that means stepping back, going quiet, or cutting contact altogether. On the surface, none of that sounds unreasonable. It makes intuitive sense. And yet the more I’ve tried to apply it cleanly, the mor

There are albums that are meant to add  something new. And then there are albums that exist to reinvent and refocus. Encore in the Ashes  is the latter. This record is not a collection of new confessions. It’s not a diary. It’s not a response to any single moment, person, or event. Instead, it’s a deliberate re-entering of the worlds I’ve already built— Carry the Dawn , Carry the Night , Carry the Ember , Circus of Ash , The Final Circus , Embers in the Glass , and The Cabare

The Cabaret of Rewritten Poems was built deliberately as a staged experience rather than a loose collection of adaptations. Each piece is drawn from public-domain poetry, rewritten and set to music in a cabaret / circus framework, then ordered to form a clear emotional progression—from confinement, to reckoning, to release. Click here to check the album out on Spotify What follows is not a personal backstory, but a map of the show. Act I — The Room and the Question The album

“The party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.” — George Orwell I keep returning to that line because it refuses to age. It doesn’t belong to a year, or a regime, or a single country. It belongs to a pattern. A rhythm. A recipe that only ever changes its costumes. When Orwell wrote it, it wasn’t prophecy so much as diagnosis—a clinical description of what happens when power stops bothering with persuasion and star

A record about staying I didn’t make this album because I wanted to. I made it because something in me was breaking faster than I could explain it, and the only way I know how to keep myself here when that happens is to build something honest enough to hold the weight. Embers in the Glass is not a diary. It’s not a highlight reel. It’s not a redemption arc. It’s what came out of me while my nervous system was on fire, while love collapsed into questions, while systems I was s

I used to think “clarity” was just a preference. Like pineapple on pizza. Like texting vs calls. Like labels vs “labels are cringe.” But for a lot of autistic people (hi), clarity isn’t a style. It’s not “being intense.” It’s not “overthinking.” It’s safety equipment. Most people aren’t trying to harm us. They’re doing what culture teaches: keep it light, keep it vague, keep options open. But what feels “polite” in one nervous system can feel like a trap in another—and autist

Don't want to read the wall of text? Click here for a short version that will take just one minute to read. I used to think “clarity” was just… a preference. Like: some people like pineapple on pizza, some people don’t. Some people like texting, some people hate it.Some people like labels, some people think labels are cringe. And sure—sometimes clarity is just a style. But for a lot of autistic people (hi), clarity is not a style. It’s not a cute personality quirk. It’s not “

By Morgan Miller Introduction Shadow work, as popularized through Carl Jung, encourages individuals to confront the hidden parts of themselves — the fears, insecurities, resentments, and unacknowledged motives that shape our behavior. At its best, it fosters personal insight and growth. It can help someone notice the difference between what is happening now and what a past wound is trying  to make them believe is happening. It can interrupt cycles of defensiveness and project

AI didn’t make me an artist. I was already an artist from childhood. It helped me stay alive long enough to remain one. I need to say something about AI and art, and I need to say it in a way that doesn’t pretend this is simple. Because it isn’t. And because I’m tired—so tired—of watching people treat every complex situation like it’s a courtroom drama with a clear-cut monster, a clear-cut hero, and a clean little ending where everyone claps and justice magically happens in

I keep saying I’m done with Christmas. And then December hits, and my brain does the same thing it always does:it remembers the lights. Not the ads, not the chaos, not the “perfect family” photos with matching pajamas and a mortgage. The lights . The quiet glow in a dark room. The way a single candle still feels like defiance when everything else is burning. Christmas in a Broken World  is my attempt to make music for that  feeling—for the people who still love the season, bu

I can feel it dying in me. Not in the cinematic way people imagine when they hear a sentence like that. Not a single dramatic crack, not a clean “before and after,” not a tidy storyline where the pain arrives, does its speech, and exits stage left. It’s quieter. Meaner. It’s a slow dimming—like a lamp that used to fill the whole room with warmth, now flickering because the power keeps cutting out, and nobody wants to admit the wiring has been sabotaged. Used. Lied to. Abuse

🎪 About Madness, Survival, and Refusing to Go Numb There’s a question that’s been haunting me for years: If the things that nearly killed you also kept you alive… what do you do with that? The Final Circus is my attempt to answer that without lying to myself. It’s a dark-carnival cabaret concept album about surviving psychiatry, misdiagnosis, psych wards, shared delusions, social-media witch hunts, alcoholism, and the quiet kind of hope that still crawls out of the wreckage

I need to share something difficult — not for advice, not for comfort, but because sometimes grief needs a shape outside the body, and if I don’t give it one it will keep living in my ribs like a trapped animal. For those who’ve known me a long time, you know who this is about without me saying it. The old story. The one that became a quiet landmark in the geography of my life. The relationship that ended and never really ended, because the ending didn’t come with an explanat

There’s a kind of loneliness that has nothing to do with being single. It’s not about not being loved. It’s not even about not being chosen. It’s about not being matched. I’ve been loved—many times, by many people. But I have yet to meet someone who loves like I do, who shows love the way I do. And that is a different kind of grief. Because what do you do when the thing that defines you, the thing you offer most freely, the fire that burns in your chest like purpose, is a lan

A Field Guide to Future-Faking, Overwhelm, Polyamorous Grief, and the Quiet Ruptures We Don’t Notice Until They Break Us There are heartbreaks that scream, and then there are heartbreaks that simply… vanish. Not with a dramatic ending. Not with a fight. Just a sudden absence — a door closing mid-sentence while the ink is still wet. This is a post about that second kind. Not as a callout. Not as a revenge letter. Not as a “here’s what you did to me.” This is a map. A prot

Preface (For the One Who Might Someday Read This) If you ever read this, I want you to know I do not hate you. What happened hurt me deeply— and it hurt my wife too— but the hurt is grief, not anger. I understand, even in the parts you didn’t say aloud, why you pulled away: the fear, the overwhelm, the suddenness of intimacy that your nervous system couldn’t hold. That doesn’t mean I believe the way it ended was right; there were gentler, clearer ways this could have unfolded

A trilogy of the heart There are some projects that don’t begin as projects. They begin as pressure — as something caught under the ribs, building and building until your chest feels full of static. These albums weren’t outlined, planned, or sketched on a whiteboard. They grew the way storms do: in pieces, in layers, across years of feelings that refused to stay quiet. I didn’t sit down one day and say, I’m going to make music. What really happened is that I’d been carrying t

There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t just fill a room — it presses against it. Then it hums in your ears until you start to wonder if it isn’t silence at all, but a frequency only conscience can hear. It’s the quiet that comes after you’ve finally said everything that mattered. Not just once. Not just in passing. But over and over — gently, honestly, vulnerably. You put your care into the world, shaped it into words, actions, offerings. And for a while, you believed that ef