Lil Gugulu states that they are not an American, and thus, they cannot rap, thus, rap converts to riddle posed by blonde-haired vr sphinx, and the helmet has been lowered, and the iPhone has been secured, and the wire has been jiggled, bye and bye.
Helmet knows you want the rollercoaster ride, woah, thus, seaketa lifts the flap over your hugely magnified eyes and slaps sticky notes and stickier hands onto the ensuing simulcrus sludge.
Three voices weave their way through these tracks. What are they saying? What are they selling? Instructions pour forth in a sweet, spastic stream, but, in the end (of “リールググル”) we remember, the stream’s oozy. Eventually, all of that sinks in. And under the soft, wet mud, seaketa sticks with, swipes a soft hand over tired eyes, curls, shivers, detaches, seeps.