One decaying, vintage drum machine ribcage rises out from a pool of amorphous, muddy, analogue synth mantras* and their myriad blooms of fungal distortions. Birds and children faintly accent distant scaffolds of their own fulfillments. The wind and sun shove and tug in equal measure on the earlobes. In the midst of all this stimuli, all us calm, bright, consonant. Warmly Lights doth warmly light the way.
and/or
— Jacob An Kittenplan
*not quite as repetitive as Zomes, but equally spellbinding!
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