You can’t sink into the carpet listening to “cellophane” forever. One day, the algorithm will cease its calculated shuffle and the gel tablet melting behind your tongue will enter and exit your bloodstream. The ceiling will stop shifting and the faces made from exposed wood grain and old, sickly knots will lose their features. You’ll exit the ark, and the air will sit hot and heavy on your shoulders until you’re buried under the mountains... Read more in our FKA twigs-inspired piece, here!
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