Pinkman stoke the furnaces of despair, fuelling them with Black Merlin. Conveyor belts grunt out resentment, cold chords curl, synthlines sneer and pallid percussion punctuates. Noise echoes above, hammered clanks exploding into shards. Below the work continues, sweat smeared stains and hissing airless gasps. In the end, all is swallowed; gulped into the gaping assembly line.
The Hipodrome Of Music 