Wind shrouds the sand dunes in a diaphanous cloud of humid mistiness, and slowly it ascends into a restless sand storm. What was once an enjoyable postcard moment fit for contemplation now becomes a cataclysmic tornado, drilling into the ground like water going down the drain of a bath (not to mention the sucking of air into the eddy going down the drain, which makes a hideous noise). Citric baselines thump repetitively against the inner shell of the skull, causing like one of Bacon's pope a vibrating of the very Phrenology within. This sound is oddly luscious, existing in some strange dimension of pulchritude; yet feels necrotic, like looking at the minutes-old corpse of Marilyn Monroe.

Snares excite and develop and explode on a skeletal level, moulding into some weird kind of grainy atonal rhythms alongside the cheery death-drive spirit. The mad giggling mare of the screaming drug-addicted person, screeching so loud that the sound waves ferment in the hippocampus as a kind of sanguine phantasm of the celestial kind, sticky arachnodactylic arms and lordotic torsos dance franticly inside the mind of the substance-depedant victim.

J. Tijn, hailing from the relatively peaceful land of the UK, brings about another deconstruction of the sane human the psychotic human.