Elektra-4-Dancers

Elektra-4-Dancers

Elektra-4-Dancers

Elektra-4-Dancers

Elektra-4-Dancers

Elektra-4-Dancers

Elektra-4-Dancers

Elektra-4-Dancers (for dance classe)

Elektra-4-Dancers (for dance classe)

Electra-4-Dancers (for dance classe)

Eletra-4-Dancers ( Dance classe )

Life (Sovereign & True) es una canción escrita, compuesta, interpretada, producida, mezclada y masterizada por Alvaro Amarante Sánchez (conocido como Alan James en Beev Rations), fundador y líder de Beev Rations. Compuesta el 3 de marzo de 2022, el master final data del 19 de junio, siendo estrenada como segundo corte del EP Present-Day Music Wild Rooted, estrenado el día 28 de julio y lanzado el 5 de agosto. Una versión alternativa de la canción fue publicada como single el 19 de agosto. Dentro de la naturaleza alternativa, indie y arraigada de su música, Alan James mezcla en esta canción texturas de psychedelic, country y southern rock. Duración: 2 minutos y 21 segundos. Letra: Good bye mind reader, we had some fun. There wasn’t a time that you owned me or you were mine. You died to feel my love that flowed to your heart, refusing the flip side of the coin you didn’t want. I was not up for such a life you wanted for me. Needless to say that you wouldn’t stand the odd of my mind. So long, good bye, moon rider, wish you the best and yeah, there was no other like you, love was a fest. Thank you. We got so high both flying so near the sun, that when we caught fire, a sure fall we couldn’t shun. It is not right nor wrong, just the way things go on.

Todo en el universo gira, desde satélites, planetas, sistemas estelares y galaxias, todo está en movimiento. Una reciente investigación ha determinado que algunas de las estructuras más grandes del universo han empezado a girar. Algunas de las estructuras más grandes del universo parecen estar girando. Los filamentos de las galaxias que forman la red cósmica […]

Por: CODIGO OCULTO. Pueden leer más en: Captan la primera imagen de la «Red Cósmica» que conecta el Universo En el frío desierto del espacio, las galaxias se agrupan alrededor de las fogatas de las estrellas y la atracción de agujeros negros supermasivos. Entre estos acogedores cúmulos de galaxias, donde el espacio vacío se extiende por millones de años luz alrededor, una tenue autopista de gas cierra la oscuridad. Esta red intergaláctica gaseosa se... La entrada Captan la primera imagen de la

Prologue It all started with silence, not the kind that comes after an explosion. Not the kind that happens in space – deaf, ringing. It was a different kind of silence. It grew from within. It absorbed sounds, memories, names. It cleansed reality like a flame cleanses a forest, leaving only emptiness. Oblivion did not manifest itself. It came not as an invasion, but as a loss. First the voices disappeared, then the faces, then entire worlds. Tera-5 was the first Elias Vale remembered as having disappeared. But memory is unreliable. Even the pain seemed to be eroding. Lyra, Emmy... Images were erased. Only fragments remained: someone else's laughter, snatches of smells, trembling in his fingers as he reached for a face he could no longer imagine. He worked in the archive of the Cradle, among dead data and forgotten times. He dug into the layers of reality like an archaeologist, trying to dig up not an artifact but an explanation. And one day he found her. Sphere.Cold. Black as emptiness itself. Unlabeled, outside the catalog. It did not belong to any known era. But as soon as Elias touched her, the silence spoke. "You don't remember what happened. And what's left." Whispers swept through his skull like a discharge. He couldn't tell if it was a voice, an impulse, or a dream. But he felt something awaken inside the sphere—and inside himself. The images poured out like an avalanche. A square of light. Ships soaring in the air like birds made of glass. Voice. Millions of votes. And then there was blood. And a scream. And a wave of darkness that didn't just consume, it choosing. Kira, the AI of the archive, said that Oblivion is entropy. Statistics. Decay.But Elias saw something else.He knew.It's not nature.It's mind.And he's searching.

Prologue It all started with silence, not the kind that comes after an explosion. Not the kind that happens in space – deaf, ringing. It was a different kind of silence. It grew from within. It absorbed sounds, memories, names. It cleansed reality like a flame cleanses a forest, leaving only emptiness. Oblivion did not manifest itself. It came not as an invasion, but as a loss. First the voices disappeared, then the faces, then entire worlds. Tera-5 was the first Elias Vale remembered as having disappeared. But memory is unreliable. Even the pain seemed to be eroding. Lyra, Emmy... Images were erased. Only fragments remained: someone else's laughter, snatches of smells, trembling in his fingers as he reached for a face he could no longer imagine. He worked in the archive of the Cradle, among dead data and forgotten times. He dug into the layers of reality like an archaeologist, trying to dig up not an artifact but an explanation. And one day he found her. Sphere.Cold. Black as emptiness itself. Unlabeled, outside the catalog. It did not belong to any known era. But as soon as Elias touched her, the silence spoke. "You don't remember what happened. And what's left." Whispers swept through his skull like a discharge. He couldn't tell if it was a voice, an impulse, or a dream. But he felt something awaken inside the sphere—and inside himself. The images poured out like an avalanche. A square of light. Ships soaring in the air like birds made of glass. Voice. Millions of votes. And then there was blood. And a scream. And a wave of darkness that didn't just consume, it choosing. Kira, the AI of the archive, said that Oblivion is entropy. Statistics. Decay.But Elias saw something else.He knew.It's not nature.It's mind.And he's searching.

Prologue It all started with silence, not the kind that comes after an explosion. Not the kind that happens in space – deaf, ringing. It was a different kind of silence. It grew from within. It absorbed sounds, memories, names. It cleansed reality like a flame cleanses a forest, leaving only emptiness. Oblivion did not manifest itself. It came not as an invasion, but as a loss. First the voices disappeared, then the faces, then entire worlds. Tera-5 was the first Elias Vale remembered as having disappeared. But memory is unreliable. Even the pain seemed to be eroding. Lyra, Emmy... Images were erased. Only fragments remained: someone else's laughter, snatches of smells, trembling in his fingers as he reached for a face he could no longer imagine. He worked in the archive of the Cradle, among dead data and forgotten times. He dug into the layers of reality like an archaeologist, trying to dig up not an artifact but an explanation. And one day he found her. Sphere.Cold. Black as emptiness itself. Unlabeled, outside the catalog. It did not belong to any known era. But as soon as Elias touched her, the silence spoke. "You don't remember what happened. And what's left." Whispers swept through his skull like a discharge. He couldn't tell if it was a voice, an impulse, or a dream. But he felt something awaken inside the sphere—and inside himself. The images poured out like an avalanche. A square of light. Ships soaring in the air like birds made of glass. Voice. Millions of votes. And then there was blood. And a scream. And a wave of darkness that didn't just consume, it choosing. Kira, the AI of the archive, said that Oblivion is entropy. Statistics. Decay.But Elias saw something else.He knew.It's not nature.It's mind.And he's searching.

Prologue: "Echo of the Rift" March 9th, 2239. Quantum Dawn Laboratory, Sector 17. Kyle adored mornings in the station's habitat module. Ella, his little sunbeam, often woke before Maria and would put on a "morning concert," singing her simple songs while her toy robot, creaky and well-worn, marched across the table. In these moments, the laboratory, that buzzing hive of advanced technology and hidden risks, seemed a distant, almost unreal world, having nothing to do with their cozy, almost illusory family idyll. Illusory, because the underlying tension of the impending experiment already hung in the air, even if they tried to ignore it. The air vibrated. Not from heat or cold, but from something deeper, something that was born in the very depths of the reactor, as if reality itself was stretched taut like the string of an ancient, out-of-tune instrument, ready to snap with a deafening dissonance. Kyle Rain stood at the control panel, his fingers, usually flitting confidently over the sensors, frozen above the screen, the pale, anxious light of the indicators reflected in his dilated pupils. "We're on the edge, Kyle," the voice of Eva Carter, his colleague, sounded tense, cracking with metallic notes through the communicator. Even through the interference, he felt her fear, mixed with that steely resolve that had always been her essence. "If we don't launch the stabilizer now, everything will collapse. Do you hear me? The energy is out of control! We're losing it!" On the small holographic window in the corner of the panel, Maria, his wife, smiled restrainedly, but in her eyes, so dear and beloved, a тревога (trevoga - anxiety/worry) splashed, which she so desperately tried to hide from Ella. This smile cut Kyle to the heart more sharply than any shard of glass. "Daddy, catch!" Ella shouted into the camera, her ringing voice breaking through the hum of the laboratory, lifting her postcard, sparkling with cheap, but so precious glitter, towards the screen. "And you promised! You promised to be back for dinner!" These words, innocent and demanding, echoed in Kyle's mind, intertwining with Eva's cry. Promises. Each one now pulled not just a burden, but a red-hot chain of remorse. He heard. But he couldn't tear his gaze away from that small window into another, still living life. They were so close – only three hundred meters away in a straight line, behind armored glass and layers of protective barriers that now seemed thinner than a spiderweb. Ella, five years old, with her funny, tightly braided pigtails that always came undone by evening, held a hand-drawn card with the crooked, yet so sincere inscription "Daddy is a hero." He promised to be with them in an hour, after the final, triumphant test. An hour that was supposed to change the world for the better. "Kyle!" Eva barked, her voice almost drowned out by the rising wail of sirens. "The reactor is at 112%! Damn it, Arden was wrong! That initial fluctuation… it wasn't interference! We should have…" Her words were drowned out by a low, vibrating hum that rose from the depths of the laboratory, from the very heart of their ambitions and mistakes. The floor beneath his feet trembled with such force that Kyle barely kept his balance, and at the same moment the central screen flashed a blinding red: "CRITICAL ANOMALY. SPATIAL RIFT IMMINENT." Kyle felt icy sweat trickle down his temple. This wasn't supposed to happen. They had calculated everything down to the smallest detail. Quantum energy, their brainchild, their hope, was supposed to be salvation, an endless source for a dying planet. But they missed something, something fundamental. Perhaps the very "insignificant interference" that Eva had shouted about. And suddenly – silence. A moment of absolute, deafening silence, stretching into agonizing eternity. And then – an explosion. Not a sound, not a flash, but a feeling as if the world, the very fabric of being, had split in two, revealing something ancient and monstrously alien. Kyle fell to his knees as the glass in front of him, the vaunted armored glass, cracked, covered with a network of silver spiderwebs, and shattered into a myriad of shards. Behind it, in the habitat module, he saw space distort. The walls curved as if made of water, colors mixed into a nauseating cacophony, and then began to tear like worn fabric, revealing a dark, pulsating, internally glowing emptiness. A rift. The First Rift. He saw Maria, his Maria, grab Ella, holding her close, saw her lips silently scream his name, but the sound didn't reach him, absorbed by this silent horror. The emptiness swallowed them, pulled them into its insatiable maw, leaving only an echo – a strange, low, vibrating hum that now seemed to sound directly in his skull, in his soul. "No…" his voice broke into an animalistic rasp as he crawled towards the shattered glass, not noticing how the sharp edges cut his palms, leaving bloody marks on the metal floor. "Maria! Ella!"

Prologue Silence had always been his companion. Not that comforting, deep silence that embraces the soul in a forest or on the top of a sleeping mountain. No. It was a different kind of silence-dense, sticky, like a spider's web, woven of unspoken words and forgotten promises. It seeped through the thick walls of the old house, crawled into the cracks of the window frames, hung heavy and pressing in the air. He had long ago learned to breathe it, this silence, this dust of oblivion that settled on every object, on every memory. Ten years. Ten years separated by the gulf between what he was and what he had become. Between Elias Burton, the genius whose brushstrokes whispered to the world about the invisible, and Elias, the recluse whose hands could only shakily take a cup of coffee to his lips. His studio, once flooded with light and filled with the smell of paint, was now a crypt. An easel stood in the center, covered by a faded canvas like a mute accusation. Beneath it were hundreds of other, equally mute, sealed canvases, each holding not a painting but a fragment of a soul frozen in time. He remembered the day his world came crashing down. The flashes of cameras, the noise of admiring voices, the promise of fame. And her eyes. Anna's eyes, in which he had seen only love and faith. Eyes that carried something else in them - a harbinger of imminent disaster. And then her words, scathing like the blow of a whip, had turned his talent, his future, his very existence into ashes. She sold him. Sold him for money, for power, for the place that should have been his. He's been dead to the world ever since. And the world died to him. But even in this dense, all-consuming silence, a whisper was sometimes heard. A whisper brought by the wind, seeping through the cracks under the door in the form of a white envelope with a single word. Words that were absurd, meaningless, but which, like drops of poison, were slowly eating away at his apathy. "DUSK." "SHADOW." "LABYRINTH." And then one day, through the dust and oblivion, Elias saw something in the eyes of the painted Anna in the old portrait that stood in his studio. A barely perceptible glare. A tiny, distorted reflection. A reflection that carried far more than just light. It carried a hint. A hint of the presence of a third. A hint of a lie that was deeper than he could imagine. Silence. She was still his companion. But now she wasn't dead. It was tense. Filled with anticipation. Because Elias Burton, the man who had buried himself alive, felt something forgotten in him awaken. Something stronger than apathy, stronger than fear. Thirst for truth. And he knew that when the real dawn came, it wouldn't just be a new day. It would be the end of a long night. And the beginning of his personal battle for justice.

Prologue Silence had always been his companion. Not that comforting, deep silence that embraces the soul in a forest or on the top of a sleeping mountain. No. It was a different kind of silence-dense, sticky, like a spider's web, woven of unspoken words and forgotten promises. It seeped through the thick walls of the old house, crawled into the cracks of the window frames, hung heavy and pressing in the air. He had long ago learned to breathe it, this silence, this dust of oblivion that settled on every object, on every memory. Ten years. Ten years separated by the gulf between what he was and what he had become. Between Elias Burton, the genius whose brushstrokes whispered to the world about the invisible, and Elias, the recluse whose hands could only shakily take a cup of coffee to his lips. His studio, once flooded with light and filled with the smell of paint, was now a crypt. An easel stood in the center, covered by a faded canvas like a mute accusation. Beneath it were hundreds of other, equally mute, sealed canvases, each holding not a painting but a fragment of a soul frozen in time. He remembered the day his world came crashing down. The flashes of cameras, the noise of admiring voices, the promise of fame. And her eyes. Anna's eyes, in which he had seen only love and faith. Eyes that carried something else in them - a harbinger of imminent disaster. And then her words, scathing like the blow of a whip, had turned his talent, his future, his very existence into ashes. She sold him. Sold him for money, for power, for the place that should have been his. He's been dead to the world ever since. And the world died to him. But even in this dense, all-consuming silence, a whisper was sometimes heard. A whisper brought by the wind, seeping through the cracks under the door in the form of a white envelope with a single word. Words that were absurd, meaningless, but which, like drops of poison, were slowly eating away at his apathy. "DUSK." "SHADOW." "LABYRINTH." And then one day, through the dust and oblivion, Elias saw something in the eyes of the painted Anna in the old portrait that stood in his studio. A barely perceptible glare. A tiny, distorted reflection. A reflection that carried far more than just light. It carried a hint. A hint of the presence of a third. A hint of a lie that was deeper than he could imagine. Silence. She was still his companion. But now she wasn't dead. It was tense. Filled with anticipation. Because Elias Burton, the man who had buried himself alive, felt something forgotten in him awaken. Something stronger than apathy, stronger than fear. Thirst for truth. And he knew that when the real dawn came, it wouldn't just be a new day. It would be the end of a long night. And the beginning of his personal battle for justice.