Like a movie with the soundtrack running in reverse. Never knowing where the story begins or ends. Play it forwards, play it backwards, it doesn’t deter the Kängnäve flow. It doesn’t change the fact that this tape will inevitably put a stupid smirk on your uncouth face. So tuck it back my friend, and dance like nobody’s watching.

Wimps and posers leave the hall. Go back to your faux-tastemakers’ playlists on Youtube. But for all you true people who are down to fuck: we welcome you to the freak party with open arms.

Last month’s meatloaf leftovers, wrapped in foil and placed into the microwave (on high) for 60 seconds. Fungus dies as sparks fly, but the heat purifies your blessed feast. Soak it in ketchup to help soften the encrusted ball of flesh. Your bowels will thank you for the inevitable tarry purge that will follow this meal. With friends like these, who needs enemas?

Fever dream vibes. Like being hopelessly entangled in sweaty sheets, sinking into a claustrophobic panic. You're listening to what people are saying but it doesn't make any sense, and it’s all just feels like a bunch of unsettling non-sequiturs.

A weird party that moves from drinking in the graveyard to smoking random shit in a dark basement with people who you don’t know too well, but you want to impress because they're extremely cool and give off Bowie-in-The-Hunger vibes.