Again the red mists of Saturday night are upon us like a clinging bad smell of societal decay. I can taste blood in my mouth. Are we sure there isn’t a full moon out there?
And to help with our psychopathic fantasies we need to have some music ringing in our ears as we pound those streets looking for fresh meat and gristle to pulverize.
I need to get out more…
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(cheers to Wim Van Hooste and Jóhann Eiriksson for the influences…)
Reykjavik Sex Farm! 