how a drawing becomes a song
Your drawing wrote its own sheet music. The line picks the notes, the corners play the drums, the loudest notes choose the chords, and your hand sets the tempo. Nothing composed — everything compiled.
Every drawing has two lives. The first is the session itself — the line singing freely while you draw. The second is the compiled song: the same line, written down as music and played by a small band. The first name is the field recording; the second is the release.
five rules, printed and kept
Compiling isn't remixing. Every musical decision in the song is derived from the drawing by one of these rules — no more, no fewer. They are the whole recipe.
the line becomes the melody
As you drew, your line was already singing — distance from the center is pitch, snapped to the app's five-note scale. The compiler takes that same sung line and writes it onto a musical grid, like writing down a hummed tune as sheet music.
the corners become the drums
Every sharp turn and every pen-lift is a drum moment. All of them are folded onto one repeating bar of sixteen steps: turns that land on the strong beats become kicks, the rest become ticks. Pointy drawings groove hard; round drawings float. And if a drawing has no corners, it honestly gets no drums.
the loudest notes become the chords
The four notes your line sang the most, in order of how much it sang them, each get a chord. Those four chords loop underneath the entire song.
Am → G → Em → D
your hand sets the tempo
The typical time between your corners is the beat — doubled or halved until it lands at a walking pace. Draw briskly and the song strides; draw slowly and it strolls.
88 bpm
the chorus is the same line, spun twice as fast
For the chorus, every circle in your drawing is doubled in speed — the whole line lifts exactly one octave. Structure, without composing a single note.
+1 octave
how a house became a song
Someone drew a house — with a smoking chimney, a tree, and a snowflake. Its line sang mostly A, G, E, and D, so those became the chords, in that order. Its thirteen corners, folded onto one bar, landed kicks squarely on the strong beats — the house drew four-on-the-floor by itself. The gaps between its corners set the tempo at 88. The compiler did the rest.
why doesn't it sound like my session?
Same recipe, different reading. Your session is the line hummed freely; the song is the line written as sheet music and played by a small band. Every note, hit, chord, and the tempo itself came from your drawing — nothing was added.
will the same drawing always make the same song?
Yes — exactly, forever. Compiling is a pure function of the drawing, and every song is stamped with its compiler version. That's the point.
can two different drawings make the same song?
Yes — and that isn't a flaw, it's the deepest thing about hearing: your ear only listens to the recipe. Two lines with the same recipe are phase twins — different pictures, one song.
does my drawing leave my phone?
No. The song is built and rendered entirely on your device. Nothing is uploaded, nothing is stored anywhere but with you.
The rules are the product.
If a change would make a song no longer derivable from its drawing by the rules printed on this page, it doesn't ship. When the rules ever grow, the compiler version grows with them — so every song can always point back to the exact rules, and the exact drawing, that made it.
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