•
Rating:
If even exotic imagination is filled with imperial decadence, it means that the world truly has something senselessly and incontrovertibly wrong.
Truly threatening clouds, even with a clear sky, even with the sun at its zenith, even in the metropolitan buzz.
The sea is near São Paulo, the sea is far in São Paulo.
Rakta drown us, industrial nightmares between Chrome and This Heat, journeys of erotic innocence like hammers against glass, like glass between teeth.
Rakta hypnotize us, they cite Siouxsie and the Slits, peeking through the keyhole at Dead Can Dance and Cocteau Twins.
Rakta alienate us in the factory with drones on the edge of minimal, without surprising, without sleeping.
Marked 2019.
Signed Kloo.
Loading comments slowly
