Foetus
Love

It is in vain that I write this review (lowercase r). It is in vain because people (You) want something much more than a heap of vile and annoying sound excrement.  And I believe it. But I am different, because I (lowercase i) unlike You (uppercase you) wish myself harm.

And it is by chance that, stirring in murkiness, I found (lowercase it) from this vile and putrescent being that I am (I) and  grooming my heart and brain  in a thunderous spatatracchete of Emotions (lowercase e, meanwhile I lost the subject of the sentence, as if I had been catapulted from an aircraft with the subject in hand and it slipped away) turning upside down and from one hand to another the vinyl (you scroll the titles trying to understand but I swear, you have no idea what will happen once you place it on the platter) soaring the mind in the flow of the first notes to untouchable peaks - whatever one says, you should never have to understand music too much - but stunned by the angelic vocalizations of a demon in disguise, a choir of graceful maidens, and a terrifying deafening howling of impossible winds, (oh, like the dissonant cries of a hundred poorly tuned baritones, I set the volume a little lower, I can't take it anymore) sticking into the walls of my cardiac muscle some slightly sharp but acid-moistened needles, drowning the bit of melody that remains in hectoliters of unprecedented distortions, all this has miraculously given me the strength not to kill myself with the handful of pills piled up in a tissue on the bedside table and allowed me to externalize the following otherwise ineffable gasp: “Ah!” and I hanged myself upside down.

Then I remove this shapeless mass of sounds, a bit dazed, a bit excited, surely a bit more deaf, and put on a nice CD of Gianni Bella. Upside down, even Gianni Bella is a return to life.