B.E. Conley, armed with trusty Tele and lap steel, carves weary fever dreams and dust-demon mirages from raw materials and surplus entropy. The world is and isn't beautiful. This is our small victory.
Half-fucked drone incantations and bleeding-limb fuzz rot. Scarred pagan struggle against or alongside darkness. This is the future we'll inherit. It's a cathartic one. The resurrection falls upon us.
Casting out spirits in the name of science. Learning lab dust on cassette, Erlenmeyer flasks and mysterious sunshine. Something watches from beyond the frame. The world stills. Lovely dread seeps in.