Oh, those incorrigible Georgians! On cross-cultural exchanges: "Esses and amigos, free-stylin' off the dome." On thumbing noses at the local constabulary while settling matters of honor: "Broad day, hand-to-hand, like the shit legal." On casually defying the laws of physics: "Ridin' real slow, bendin' corners." I don't care if you're Verne Troyer; walk down the street with Lex Luger's click-tracked, imperial synths on parade and Waka machine-gun barking along, you'll feel like you're 20 stories tall.
Who says you can't splice together minimalist micro-keyboard taps and a monk's wordless incantations and tape of a long steel thread being retracted through an AC duct and call it art? You can totally do that.
Disco-ball debauchery far gone enough that if you're anywhere near as off-the-rails as the sound mixer for "Party" must've been, levitating several feet above the dance floor to make out with disco balls seems like a rather capital idea.
At first, you're all, "Oh, it's just some pea-soup-fog badass ambient drift core bullshit." Then you realize that it's actually the auditory equivalent of a Will Self short story titled "Chest."
Nurse with Wound
If Easter Island moai could whisper, this is what they'd confide in us when we stooped, gingerly adjusted our brittle Nikons, and leaned in close.