A vast, ethereal, liminal space of an album.
Like all your best, most nostalgic, most "was that actually real or was the 90s just one huge collective fever dream?" PSX demo disc memories, reinterpreted through the lens of desperate escape from how profoundly rubbish modern life is, in album form.
The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over, but it can’t, not without your help. But you’re not helping. Why is that?
