At this moment, I don’t feel like doing SHIT. I want to not hear about your murder podcast where someone is ritualistically raped into a thousand pieces that all individually serve as part of the ceremony. Please, leave me out of your blood mask. I don’t need skin on skin contact anymore. Shit, it’s never been a necessity. But I see it now. Outside here now. In a town now. Where Meme Vivaldi leads the occultist twist of underground faith. Give us thy divine Ingrown Records judgement. It’s high-time we rev the Black Ferrari: