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Hour two, our dear leader. Slinking through dubwise rhythm which gives way to a layered build of driving analogia. Abstraction and direction in interplay. Mangling minimal, electro, and acid together in a seance, a dialogue, the dancing voice of the core’s industrial ghosts. Grizzled steelyard timbres in a soundtracking for terminal sermons. It's in the name after all, T.S. Tip.
