HOW I WORK (For Anyone Tryna Collab the CRYPTIC Way)

Look… let me be upfront with it.

I don’t know how to “properly” collab by the book. I ain’t the one scheduling Zoom calls, sending project files with clean-cut stems and bpm sheets like some studio robot. That ain’t how I was raised, and that damn sure ain’t how the darkness taught me. I’m built off raw expression, pain, shadows, and crooked ritual. This ain’t corporate music. This is cult blood on cassette tape.

I create in isolation, like some haunted old warlock in a basement with candlelight and a busted mic that’s seen too much. When I record, I’m bleeding pieces of my soul out through vocals—fragments of madness, trauma, prophecy. Some tracks come out full, some halfway, some just whispers in the dark waitin’ to be exhumed. That’s how my vault works.

Now if you hear somethin’ I laid down—maybe a hook that hits you in the gut, a verse that sounds like it was meant for your demons to dance on—or even just a throwaway line that starts haunting your head at 3AM… listen, that ain’t coincidence. That’s the cursed frequency I operate on.

If it speaks to you? TAKE IT.
Breathe new life into it. Chop it up. Pitch it down. Layer your own venom in between my bars. Put your pain next to mine. Just make sure it’s one of the joints I curated for this purpose—you’ll know the ones. They’re open caskets. Empty temples. They’re meant to be possessed.

This ain’t about ego or control for me. I don’t gotta be in the studio with you. I don’t need to watch you write. I just need the end result to still taste like the void we both crawled out of. Keep the spirit rotten. Keep the bones intact. Don’t clean it up. Don’t try to fix my words or polish my scars. Let it stay ugly. Let it scream.

I’m not here to hold your hand—I’m here to test your spirit.

So if you comin’ in on one of my tracks, know this:

You’re entering a haunted structure I built during a possession. You can paint the walls and set fire to the furniture, but the foundation? That’s cryptic concrete. That don’t move. Respect it. Work around it. Work through it. But don’t dilute it.

This ain’t a feature.
It’s a ritual collaboration.
The only rule? It gotta feel cursed.

If it don’t feel like something God turned away from…
If it don’t sound like both our shadows had a conversation during a séance…
Then it ain’t the right energy.

I’d rather no collab than a fake one.

I made these pieces open on purpose. These are my bones laid out like runes in a pentagram. They were never meant to sit in silence. So if you got the guts to pull one out and breathe into it, I welcome that. Especially if you’re part of the family—MORBID Gang, Chapter 17, or those out there on the same left-hand path. We speak the same nightmares.

But don’t come askin’ for instructions.
Don’t wait for permission slips.
Don’t expect handouts.
Just grab the shovel, dig up the track, and summon your verse from the dirt.

And when it’s done?

Let it rot loud.
Let the world choke on it.