There’s no other cave like Christos Chondropoulos’ cave. Like, imagine a completely rock-enclosed structure just crumbling ever-so slightly, year-after-year, as if it’s a renovation technique for space. A couple of sharp whisks with the broom, and a cave is larger. Brighter. Ready to echo out Music From the Early Robotic Societies of the Basin.
AI abandoned in routine. THE TAPEWORM running its corse. Like a battery. Completely unstoppable. Not knowing this would come up. A better tomorrow. When archaic sounds revolve and bite you in the ass. Come through to the club cave. There’s a mania here you’ve gotta taste:
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