As the printer rhythmically executes its commands, Micah's face contorts into a debonair grin. Asked about his condition, he slips me a small card: "I want to be a machine. Arms to grab. Legs to dance with. No pain. No thoughts." On the back is emblazoned in large letters: ROUTINE. The following night, we meet at the agreed location. Inside, the air is heavy with fog and electricity. People and sound condense into a surging sea. A storm is brewing. My body cooperates without asking. Every kick is a precise command, every snare a whip. Back in the office, I meet Micah conspiring at the printer.
DJ Pommes ( Chimaera )
DJ Swisherman
Enamel ( Quartal | Flimmergrenze )
Jenny Cara ( NTS )
Toni Pfad ( biotobt )
10€ until 0000
15€ from 0000
Artwork: antonius_xy0815
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