[E X | T] {Wake IV}



Vorticite: bass
jh0st: guitar
X: vox
Krozz Warsaw: drum
IReverend Brainskan: keys

THERE IS NO SPACE IN THE SHADOWS U.V. TIME WHEN THE TURNAROUND ATEVENT HORiZ0N BEYOND NIGHT’S graceful Worlds. Living now down a graded country lane, the V*8 is indeed awaiting a spectral chassis flash. In time even the jhost u.v. Weptmas present has shown it’s invisible self to B? the themes of glacial melt, ozone holy rollers myopicly detuning the textbooks to offer non~scientific ‘rationale’? The reason u.v. ages hath been transmuted, WT had gone around the dark fork in the raod no is proven and cloven wrong. A/C Phantoms and ray~0~tubes litter the pastoral metal-in-meadow bucholic paradiso like so many broken toys on Xmass black.

The native eye weeps silently and 1 tear rolls in passive momentum. Reworked versions, dubplate coincidences and overbored self doubting engine rooms steer the SS Weptian Beattitude south to Hades Condos on Broadthin Weigh St8tion Zero. Clashing with the rodeo klowns in gin and toniqueville, where sinning cities beg for remorse from a god they can not fathom.  Yes, EXIT was the summer of martyrdom for the band, an album which absorbed every last drop of hydrogenuiiDN8 talent from a band , leaving an empty tho undead shell it would take a quarter century to reanimate in full 3d spectr-sonix.

Presaging the Iceagean n0n-sea, we SEE the statik on the horizon where Wept is a Serpent in EXILE, and all projects commence to rockout on the finite edge of the event horizon. A storm glowers at destiny, rumbling yet never eigning in direct confrontation or consolation of its own tornadic demise. wHEN THE LIGHT hits the skyline on a winterz solstICE we can see forever and a day on the HARVEST moon/ She screams in ascension towards the bliss of evenly spaced ecologicly mini-meadows littered with the rusting monuments to a civilization lost in the hubris of it’s own fundamental narcissicism. /\ fretless FR**8d0m well beyong the dim amber light, black and white or hyperboloic chiauscuro counterpoint converse ariels

Sides of seawater over the cliff and down the valley to where the anscestor invites us to the ininiative to become aware of our omniverse. Within and without the citadels lonley fanfae trumpeting from atop the stroboscopik telekonstrucktz. The sheetmetal dreams of gravitys reign bows under the spaces of antimatters own massless dispalcement of enough cylinder volume to poerr the forces of infinitys last calling card choosing instead to accept the f8+ u/v/ the genuii, xarriai, artificially intelligent being no excuse for existential mistakes never regreted. Or at least never acknowledged.

The wistful flute of a pixies dream floats thru our own Rossuae like jungle of concrete inquities, all reasons become WHY when the feedback devil choirs chant at the g8tes of hollow hills.Transcending the mundane, the abertrod wears out the boots which are his casterl in nomadic quests to reach the synchrony u.v. “how could it be that you choose the saem f8+, every time”? Simaltaneous, instantaneous extantitude; Thizodius my dear Watts, son! Crank up the generator and tap the last u.v yr power supply, zelebr8te the twilight of infinitii’z glorious entropix tropc topic du jour. Or so we thought….

WEPT doubts that, being acredited cynix and hopeful idealists in search u.v. a muse who can xolarize the cat’s eyes when the wolf howls at an eclipsing moon. Well, maybe NOT! Still come on in and shake off yr animal skin, reject the fur and question yr food sourcem supposrt the local cuisine in Plnets touring beyond all the blur and green known to B… No rest for the wicked, till the sea is fr33 we can not SLEEP~~~Do yr eyelids feel so comfortable being closed? Polisj the lens on the keyhole fisheye door u.c perceptionz. ” If I am and nothing more…is there something more? Put yr soul to good use. Please? Yr welcome………


the original limited edition cassette album cover:




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