Four measured tracks, all washing up a new kind of psychedelic moss, fresh thin tendrils, easy to snap, but determined to grow among loose grey matter late on into the next day, and the next and the next. Dry coughs and outta-whack piano chords play into Boy Scout bike repairs. Hot air leaks from a perished rubber hose. With knuckles like hazelnuts, these sounds shine like delicately laid cobblestones, laid end-to-end with neither fuss nor haste. Late night thumps, "boof, baff," and a lousy Soft Machine organ solo talks a Brighton raver down from gritted jaw of oblivion. Ideas are put through the wringer in stereo effect. The domestic bric-a-brac builds up: a motorcycle revving, the dry crunch of gravel underfoot, a jumble sale of sweaty woolens, singing out through pinched throat to make un-sense of the phrase "iss, sum bear-lae-um." An unexpected kitchen sink gamelan makes for a discombobulating listen. Tension is introduced via leathery lunged accordion but there's no crass crescendo. Fading out like a flu virus... Euro voices abound in tangled syntax. Verbs, sounds, and nouns renamed. The downs come in re-directed by taut tape loops making the ecstatic, grooving on the surface of a micron-thin bubble. Another take on the stretched ritual. A parrot squawks underwater struggling for fresh O2. Furious eraser scurrying action is met with the stony silence of a fourteen-year-old girl while apples crunch between strong white teeth. Our old friends, words, are worried and fretted in a dark experiment; turned over looking for new seams and valves to shuck and pried open like ripe clams until mucus-y muscle slips free and falls to the flagstones below. A living séance. Acrylic Wisdom from the Old Ones, the thin Venn diagram slice between frantic scuttling and sweet Miskatonic stoned. Colored vinyl. Edition of 350.