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Through the lampshades of some precursor’s dead consciousness, like a traffic policeman on fire (or valium), screamed by the radio of of a jellyfish-taxi, sunk to the bottom of the sea, made unclear by a telegram from the rotting corpse of an echidna, GOBUZLI grind their fangs and pulverise amplified spirals of aural gangrene just for your pleasure. And a little bit for their own too.
