Somehow I feel I'm not supposed to leave this place...

Silent Hill. Its dying streets misplaced beneath a poisonous fog. Derelict buildings breathing through broken windows. Empty rooms that somehow remember who suffered inside them. Rust. Dampness. Fluorescent lights trembling themselves toward extinction. Something dragging itself behind a wall. And beneath all of it: the unbearable suspicion that the town knows you. That it has been waiting. A purgatory built not from bricks but from trauma, guilt, repression, depression, unspeakable fears—the soft internal catastrophes we bury deep enough to pretend they have stopped moving. A kind of Lovecraftian Solaris, perhaps, reshaping itself around the wounds of whoever wanders too far inside. Its post-human abominations crawl from this psychic architecture like Francis Bacon figures somehow taught to breathe. With Somehow I feel I'm not supposed to leave this place..., Hemwick does not merely pay tribute to this universe. He extends it. Another condemned corridor has appeared where there wasn't one before. The album is magnificently desolate: feverish, frozen, deconstructed, deeply wrong. Antiquated dark ambient wanders through carbonized death-industrial machinery; grief-stricken drones dissolve into spectral lo-fi electronics; distant metallic convulsions, diseased frequencies and glacial sound-effects emerge and disappear like things glimpsed through fog that perhaps should not be approached. Everything feels abandoned. Everything feels inhabited. A deliciously hideous work of sonic macabre—music for wandering through places that construct themselves from memories you were never supposed to recover. And somewhere, impossibly far behind you, a door has closed. You don't remember opening it. -Sir Kuliktavikt