Vampire Rodents
Lullaby Land

You can be fat while being nervous, dynamic, fast, muscular. The vanity fair of showing off one's pride in the beauty of the ephemeral biological vehicle, from Toronto, is mocked by slashes of disjointed eternal returns taken with full hands from the afterlife, both from the lower area as well as the upper one.

An overwhelming presence, theirs, that horrifies in the tons of techno-metal arcane sinuosity industrializing without an assembly line the awakening to the realization of having a pineal gland. People who flirt with horror like this are not easily found. These are the right "lullabies" to awaken us from foolish hypnotizations that tear us away from the immediate.

Therefore, the correct diet is a reluctant energy that crushes you in a different way than gravity. It's like the hourglass of eternity: the sand falls from bottom to top; let's make peace with our soul. Certainly, the award-winning firm Rathausen & Wulf doesn't mince words, not filtering any communion of listening with the audience, instead mystifying a pathos of a universal judgment filtered by shadows of chamber music, seems to me very much like a concrete joke, given the playful meticulousness they put in the mash.

And it's good that listening results in being, to say the least, annoying, irritating, post-shock in revisiting our convenient fears that we have adapted to our lies, with a finally pure horror vacui that brutally detoxes us from all those wrong foods we have been made to ingest so far. In the absence of sterile exhibitionism, obscenity is thus served, only that makes broth (of stars).

And surely, to start listening to this bacchanal of chaos continuously stuffed with pantagruelian pyramid constructions, one must already have the callus to frequent the "great feast" of millennial massacres, especially psychic ones, thrown there on the plate with nonchalance. And it is that absence of obscenely showing that archangelic acceleration that provokes the rash which projects us into agitated zones of our being we didn’t know we had.

The fat of the four eras dripping from the compositions finally lets us taste that the conscious disintegration of the coagulation of lies we live in is the only goal that can free us from the crust that interrogates our inner God. In the inferiority of the inhuman condition we find ourselves in this journey of our life, we will hate these Canadian suckers, but they also solve, what can you do?

And remember, anyone who tells the truth kills fantasies, which is why they are hated. But for this, they are unceasingly praised by me. What to say about the cover? Better not say anything, let's go. We'll bypass the rest of the jugular, blue blood here anyway, blue.

We jump without a net, these are the angels we can trust.