Fuck It, We Ball

A crude devotional loop of extinction, spat out by scorched circuits and half-dead machines that no longer remember what they were built to do. They repeat it anyway, like monks trapped in the carcass of a factory. Time thickens into tar. The pressure builds until cognition begins to shear apart along invisible fault lines. Time swells. You're not listening anymore ; you are inside. Inside the sounds. At the center of the storm your brain softens, dissolves, spills forward in slow translucent ropes from the eyes, the nose, the ears. Thought drains away like coolant from a cracked engine. Your body? No longer a body. Just a rough silhouette of broken meat vibrating in sympathy with the collapse. Your memories convulse. Your traumas slide together like tectonic plates of rot, compressing, fusing, collapsing inward until they form a single gravitational wound. A supermassive black hole made entirely of everything that ever hurt you. And the sound keeps feeding it. -Sir Kuliktavikt