Savage ambient mines the rawness of QUEER FLESH. Nubs for fingers now and numb is the neck where one bit into geysers of thick blood. Hot blood. On stilts. Being mistaken for a doctor, but your wearing a shower robe. Breakfast robe. Breakfast Robe, Phd., at your services. An unnatural obsession for time travel just because your good at telling time without a clock. “He when that-a-way!” GALEN TIPTON on the run in some flip-flop high-speed Post-Geography landscapes.
The layers of QUEER FLESH peeled away into a cake sculpture, maybe lasagna, but only lasagna spelled right, the right way, a completely different way. Feast and find yourself at the end of some tunnel that’s been echoing this whole time, and how did you even get to this point in life? GALEN TIPTON shivering by your side. Sighs mapping the sonics of this tunnel’s Post-Geography. Keep your mind completely open:
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