chester shambleton jammed some good horn. pants triscari worked that mic like a pole dancer in a rap video. its all connected to a lynchian theme of sex and anticipation. what do we wait for? is it the skin? the endorphin rush of conquering new skin…or old skin peeling away to reveal the layers of 11 years spinning into a cacophony of something real. they tell you it matters. they tell you its all for naught. they tell you it makes a hell of a soundtrack to the apocalypse. we like the blue box. it warms us with its mystery . and then the days that we wonder what the hell it is we’re doing typing away, picking the flesh from our bones and selling our wares, we realize that those that came before came a lot. when they were fucking…ahem! right?
A vast digital ocean of goods that hold zero tolerance for blank space in their transparent place holding collective…It sways and ebbs and flows as eyeballs sink, slowly at first but slowly, inexorably these little lifeboats of eyes get swallowed by junk…
The glistening, shiny, shimmering liquid metal gleam that hides the truth of every molecule behind some cool, ahem…marketing pitch.
We’re fucked…thoroughly fucked with every inch of space we cover in our search for something better than what we have in the real world…Gargoylesharks patrol these waters, their digital retinas hypersensitive for prospective victims.
These click through demons rent and tear their victims down in that viscous netherworld of product…product for everyone and everything at anytime and anyplace.