An aural atmosphere born of tie-dye shirts and bellbottom jeans mollycoddles us to a festival masquerade set in a lava lamp of hot-pink existential goo where blood-spattered disembodied heads chant a Floydian-homage to our funhouse-mirror lives filled carnival games unhinged and non-refundable. “The clock is ticking on the wall, She doesn’t think of you at all, No more, Anymore. ~ Parlor tricks and swizzle sticks, … Continue reading The Dream Syndicate ~ Damian [2⊘22]