It’s about mania. In the age of dead machinery, automatonic sensates and post-human prophecy, let us scratch out the offal, drag up the viscera, and mount it on a pike. Twining heart-strings like catgut, the moment is for violent polyphony. Notes from the crossfire, diary of a target, the exquisite intimacy between your back and the wall–all of these must be known.

Reaping thrill from fallow fields, the rain must come righteous. Submit now.