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When I grow up, I want to be like Death Grips.

Imagine smoke gradually filling a room, surrounding you. And ‘you’, still indecisive about if you’re going to have a citostick or a bamihap for dinner tonight, can slowly but surely smell a faint touch of something… You can’t quite put your finger on it. But you certainly feel the substance crawling up your chin and entering your mouth, slithering past that cavity in your tooth, filling your lungs, which are swelling rapidly, tickling your belly from the inside. And you almost suffocate. A voice calls out, ‘Don’t forget to breathe, loser.’. You decide to listen, and as you breathe out the substance through your nose all cool-like, you forget all your important passwords and where you parked your respectable warm wife. Hey, nice job, kid; you can sit with us now.

I’m on a secret mission to inflict some serious abstraction and discomfort onto this comfortable respectable warm jacuzzi which we’ve gradually been sinking into, unable to move our legs and to keep our eyes open. I’m the sugar in your saltshaker, I’m the cold shower in your neck, I’m the fly in your soup. There’s no one that can match me. My style is impetuous, my defence is impregnable, and I’m just ferocious. I want your heart; I want to eat your children.