No extra space is needed to jut in the spirited aural vehemence of quasi-static tensions that have been energized enough to echo across the landscape of the auditory.

Arise droning and dragging feedback worship and propulsion by the sons of the Muse. Give drums or pounding, smouldering discretion but don’t forgive when rasping out grunge chunks at screeching levels.

Tribal occupations are a strike-out of hunga munga affair. A knifethrowing diversion would appreciate drums of such palpitating throbs around an arena amid long-drawn rhythms which are nothing close to distracting them.

When the blood blooms from slipped hits on the target and blooms, let the tribute begin with dirgy vocalizations to a waning sunset. Into a night of tribal fires and more chants backed with hand sticks.


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