Agent Provacateur
by Caffeine's Heir
lordflux
GrumbleGnome
Ralf Gotthardt
if Spins 📀 it Wins 🏆
josedenoche
writerrb
hothamandcheese
Sill
MFSIMBA
Alex Reed
gnatze
saltmanz
galoha7
thetotohunter
Michael McConnell
Profà
Jairus Khan
morthz
Scott Rutherford
5arah
Joe Sharp
Dionysus Virus
SRL
big-ern
wsmiller
alexthegreat221
Devil Nights
Karl Reinsch
Lost In The Tunes
ingloriousham
Mason
D H Y R E K
Stan Magendanz
bolli1510
brothercoyote
ehSteve
kickingmachine
Olio Flux
orlandolovekill
Robert Freeborn
jterry66
manko
epoch
captainfez
akociuba
RF
Larry
Mérédith Debaque
djsunyata
mconrace
bluedragontao
Greg Morris
citizenofdreams
kz901
rollingo
vrodriguez88
aftershockaspirant
Lusiphur
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1. |
Calendar Event
01:34
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2. |
Seance
03:43
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3. |
Communion
04:27
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4. |
Aftermath
01:50
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about
From the glow of my screen, I summoned them from the Darknet's chaos: Frederick, a bulking human form with a guitar in hand, and Zoe, a goth maelstrom who sang like the end times were a lullaby. Our pact? Invoke the Old One on a night where music, madness, and the arcane would dance, capture the mayhem, and disappear from each other's stories at dawn.
The setting was an abandoned warehouse; our stage was set with relics for amplification, humiliation, and invocation. Frederick's strings cut through the silence, each note a plea and a provocation. Zoe's humming twisted around them, not music, but something primal, pulling at the unseen. We shared uppers, downers, and our flesh with sacramental reverence, the boundaries dissolving into nothingness.
It happened in an indistinguishable blur. The air thickened with the presence of the Agent Provocateur, a pressure on our psyche, a wordless whisper in our veins. Ideas, desires, fears--they didn't seem our own. They were commands, chaos seeking release. Frederick transformed aggression given purpose, his guitar both a weapon and wound. Zoe became the epicenter, her voice the echo of timeless dissent.
Morning trespassed rudely. We were wreckage, human debris scattered amidst the remains of our ritual. Frederick nursed a self-inflicted mark of battle; Zoe, ever the vessel, seemed hollowed, her red, bloodshot eyes narrating a haunting script.
We separated, unspoken, carrying remnants of rebellion within us.
This Record serves as a window, a fleeting peek into the pandemonium we courted during those hours of darkness. Shards and echoes present the essence of what transpired in that temporal whirlwind.
The setting was an abandoned warehouse; our stage was set with relics for amplification, humiliation, and invocation. Frederick's strings cut through the silence, each note a plea and a provocation. Zoe's humming twisted around them, not music, but something primal, pulling at the unseen. We shared uppers, downers, and our flesh with sacramental reverence, the boundaries dissolving into nothingness.
It happened in an indistinguishable blur. The air thickened with the presence of the Agent Provocateur, a pressure on our psyche, a wordless whisper in our veins. Ideas, desires, fears--they didn't seem our own. They were commands, chaos seeking release. Frederick transformed aggression given purpose, his guitar both a weapon and wound. Zoe became the epicenter, her voice the echo of timeless dissent.
Morning trespassed rudely. We were wreckage, human debris scattered amidst the remains of our ritual. Frederick nursed a self-inflicted mark of battle; Zoe, ever the vessel, seemed hollowed, her red, bloodshot eyes narrating a haunting script.
We separated, unspoken, carrying remnants of rebellion within us.
This Record serves as a window, a fleeting peek into the pandemonium we courted during those hours of darkness. Shards and echoes present the essence of what transpired in that temporal whirlwind.
credits
released January 1, 2024
license
all rights reserved
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Stargazing at Blank Skies! New York, New York
the home of all things electronic.
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