Pulsating square waves cascade into the mindful cacophony of a sweetly chilled autumn’s night, as the drum machine works its circuits into submission. Slaved to its rhythm is the bass guitar modelling machine, a squelching tiny battler with a penchant for the sounds of little green men, typing its tones from one to sixteen, resonating loudly, effecting the air with timeless punk chic. The singer takes the stand, the microphone covered in dust from the shaking floor boards above, and she looks to the metal walls dripping with sweat and lets her song do the talking.
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Published by Fictional Man
No single work did more to question the conventions than what you now read. Welcome to my world. View all posts by Fictional Man