There’s a trapdoor basement somewhere where someone willfully fell into for the adventure of it all. This basement is just the top level of these layers into a journey of entrenched illegality. A well with a rope that leads to a darker layer where a beat rips and no light is shed. Bodies pushing against each other, all warm bodies, swaying with the music, sweating. All together sweating. The finest club in the city, unseen. Until a staircase is found pressed against a back all, and descending it leads again to another level of these layers, feign neon wafts gusting into the faceless gas masks of people turning their heads and staring behind goggles at the bastion on a quest. Relentlessly looking around in a panic. Frantic and finding a lift that continues to pull down through layers and levels of unfathomable visions and sights to behold until it stops. Bottom level. The layer. Hosted on Collapsed Structures. Holocryptograms roaming and barely visible. Both Lila Tirando a Violeta x Snakepiss trying their best not to snicker. Fading in the corner, Lighght. Voices whispering in ASMR echos:
“The walls are coming down. The struggle to feel special intensifies. The need to feel right, to justify your decisions, to plant your flag, is overwhelming. Thoughts that are not yours are shrapneled into your brain. You have never truly had your own thoughts. They have been recycled for thousands of years, through billions of minds, and are just now reaching you.
The walls are coming down. You will escape whether you like it or not. The ancient organizations are insufficient. You are insufficient. You are dying and we are being born again together.”