A song is anything that can walk by itself? No chance. But oh my God, does it dance. This thing’s pure carny magic rattlin’, rollin’, a calliope gone rogue under the big top. A beautifully unhinged vision, part fever dream, part mechanical sorcery. Not just an instrument, but a living, breathing spectacle of marbles cascading like a hypnotic spell whispering secrets in rhythm. Every piece, every motion, a triumph over chaos. It doesn’t just play music it becomes it.

And just the right amount of mad. Marble Machine by Martin Molin: