I compose music as a way of filtering and processing the experience of being alive. Not as a document of my life, necessarily—but because composition gives me a way to distill what I notice, feel, or question in the world around me. I’m not interested in writing music for its own sake. I write because it gives shape to thoughts and feelings I don’t always have words for. It’s how I understand myself and how I stay open to discovery.

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My music sits somewhere between the experimental and the approachable. But any sort of accessibility is never about simplification. I’m not interested in diluting the depth of the music, or of the art form. But I am interested in creating access points. Sometimes that means pairing non-traditional sounds or structures with more familiar harmonic material. Other times, it means writing music that’s conceptually challenging but emotionally direct. In every case, the intention is the same: to make space for curiosity, for connection, and for listening that doesn’t require specialized knowledge.

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I don’t work from systems. I work from sound and intuition. Much of my process is spent in slow, detailed listening—getting a gesture or a single pitch to feel right. I’ve come to value that slowness. There was a time in my life where I felt a constant urgency to produce and push things forward. Now I find myself more willing to sit with the work. I don’t mind if it takes a while. In fact, I often want it to. Letting ideas take their time is one way I try to make space—not just musically, but personally.

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I’m especially drawn to music that unfolds with patience, and to moments where arrival points or silences are allowed to linger. There’s a ritualistic quality in that kind of pacing that’s begun to guide more of what I write. I want each piece to feel like a collection of gestures—carefully placed, sometimes delicate, sometimes stark—that collectively create a shape or sensation. The music doesn’t always move in a straight line. It hovers. It breathes. It waits.

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Wabi-sabi, the Japanese aesthetic of impermanence and imperfection, isn’t something I actively reference as I write—but it’s in the background of everything. That outlook—of allowing something to be incomplete, to decay, to feel slightly unstable—feels aligned with how I see the world. I tend to write music that’s a little frayed at the edges. Sometimes it’s precise, but it rarely tries to be polished.

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Over the last few years, I’ve also been relearning how to feel emotionally connected to the music I write. For a while, that connection slipped away. I had internalized this idea that emotion didn’t belong in serious composition, or that emotional attachment would somehow interfere with creative clarity. But I’ve come to realize how much I missed it. And now, I’m interested in creating work that resonates emotionally—not through cinematic gestures or narrative arcs, but through texture, breath, and the way a single sound can shape a listener’s perception of time.

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Curiosity is also a throughline in everything I do. It keeps me moving forward and reminds me to ask better questions. I’m less interested in mastery than I am in paying attention—slowing down enough to really listen, and allowing each piece to reveal something I didn’t know before.

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I don’t feel like I’ve arrived anywhere definitive, and I don’t really expect to. Every piece teaches me something—usually something small, often something I didn’t know I needed. I’m after music that feels honest, made with care, and reflective of where I am in the moment. If I’m lucky, it creates enough space for someone else to find themselves in it too. That’s the kind of connection I care about most.