Darkness seeps into ones vision like the snow-static off an old tube television screen. The tubes still humming and thinking it’s talking, or hearing hallucinations of sounds of conversations and symphonies. Not sure if the experience is entirely evil. Or manic. How far are the mics? Who face in the mirror is that, sis? Twisting the lines of noise, industrial, and metal. Synthetics corrupting natural elements of boundaries. All bad has spilled here. G.Paim has no intention of cleaning it up. As if an all expenses paid vacation to the rotting beaches ofsubsubtropics records. Don’t look down:
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