Review Summary: And then Brainfeeder said "mommy, badass chill beats full of art and soul don't exist outside, right?" "well son, we don't know for sure, but I can assure you if they did exist, they're just as fuckin' dope as we are, if not more."3 of 3 thought this review was well written
Skies are bittersweet like a destroyed film art project, leaving warm colors and haze behind for the night. After cultivating your high, you exhale a swirling image off your breath and into the atmosphere like a jaded artist, soaking in the mist expressed by the settled sun. You’re aware of your butt and the seat it’s nursed by, aware of your every breath, aware of your skin, aware of the thoughts you’re thinking about your awareness, temporarily. The ceiling rises and you weigh more and more as you drift off into a blank wall with chipped plaster and smoke stains. You feel every beer bubble that seeps down your throat and lick your Cheetos fingers clean. You can’t bring yourself to close your eyes, and your body numbs.
When your skin cools over at the seat of the bar, you feel every hair and movement underneath your bag of a sweater and collapse into the brisk marble. Lights come from unknown sources, life sitting horizontally, shrouds and blurs sedate your eyesight like faded blemishes, stirring and conjuring the fish you could at one point only watch. Atmosphere draws drear right before you, contemplating the grays and obscurities your eyes tease you with. Energy drips down like a sweating glass on a tepid afternoon, melting and lulling the vapid refreshments you contort from your inner desires. Glistening like the bare skin of the moon does your soul evaporate, contained and swirling in your nearby presence to animate and exist like a sentient mural. Hues blur and converge in your teary lens, glossing what’s in front of you and emulating a lucid dream. You fear not of dryness or tasks, as you are saturated and satisfied, heavy and content, substantial in the world if only for a moment. Ad infinitum you re-colorize, redefine and soak the world you’re faced with with a segment of yourself, a chipped piece of your essence sliding around and drawing in like a sponge, encapsulating the night into a cleansed, lurid contour of your smoky innards, burned and rearranged alongside the mirrors of discontent and layered upon the crusts that make up your surreal consciousness, narrowing thinner and thinner as you drowse.