I am reborn, I am remade. I, digital, one-man upgrade. I come, dressed as an angel, made up of silicon and carbon fiber, primed for no reason, processing in infinite parallel lines too fast for speech to articulate. Syllables merge into one another, speed enchantment catchphrase catalyst mortuary, ceremony broken wrist, escape velocity, dead arms, red-out, mist. I dare to leave a trail. Silent over-heated song by a cyborg nightingale. Put against the hum, background noise, radiation screech, I just can't hear from all this static. Half-moon, half-mad, information overdose, under-fed, brain dead. Victim of a 6am mind rush, adrenaline substitute, data boost, head crush. Hard to keep my head above the water, liquid breathing, thought disorder, maybe it's time control became priority. Post-human ascent. Deep thought, further into the core. In an odd tale of ones and naughts, we are the chosen ones. Giving a human side to central processing. Differences in behavior lead to colorful results. They fade into blurriness as dream returns, redundant like the music they try to follow. The dancers drift and wear away only to be stopped by a change of tempo.
Pinturas Negras is the band that ended the world. Its written history has been pieced together from sources as
varied as the menu of a long gone Chinese restaurant or the obituary section of a 19th century English newspaper. The music is heavy. The words follow suit, crafting a sound not unlike the stranger side of MTV2 from twenty years ago....more