“A life benign, the stench of a false sense of pride. Keep your 9 to 5, I’ll take a dead end drive. At best vermin in this dirt fucking life.”
Let the forest speak my name.
Down this old road, to Appalachia.
Ramblings and musings about fresh tunes that span the gamut of blistering grindcore, poignant doom pop, minivan jazz, and a litany of other timbres.
The sky is falling in! Laugh! HA HA! I think I will.
Getting virtually woodchipped by a floppy disk drive.
Ramblings on resonances repugnant, riveting, tranquil, and biting.
“You can’t die if you’ve been dead for years.”
“Gaze upon the fetid rot,
Weeping wounds of the world forgot”
Excessive ramblings on timbres harsh, elating, groovy, boisterous, and psychotic.
“Hell is a reflection of myself, branded in the skin of those I love.”
While you’re nursing your rusty tetanus-filled wounds, be prepared to dance your way to a cyber beat.
Eccentric, cerebrum-liquefying savagery.