Neon lamps flicker in the acrid gas surrounding them while rain pours down on bare wires that would like to melt in a plastic fusion but are instead forced to let electricity inside scream its burning blind fury. A thunderous vibration seems to come directly from the ground, but it’s just another corpse mangled and thrown into an incinerator where iron ants will eat its remnants. Daniel Menche keeps shocking our senses with releases that can be subtly menacing or extremely violent but are consistently high quality; the care the man from Oregon puts into the assemblage and perennially lucid orientation of his work carries with it the sick fragrance of death as definitive liberation from the futility of the stupid things of life. But it’s that very end that becomes refreshed blood pumping in our veins, restarting the cycle all over again.