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The Paper Thin Cogs of a Sunday Morning
‘The Machine is a visceral, organic entity. She breathes and wishes to scream. She seeks a release from the binds of the ever present Now, a place where tomorrow has folded in on today and created a future lived in the pause between a breath.
Hers is the rage of lived experience with the messy stains of history laid bare, a sweeping away of that which lurks in the techno-shadows, that which is robed in a tracery of synthetic micro fiber and silicon coated iridescent plastics, spinning on a dias of black glass and titanium; a ‘non-place’ fit only for an intellect stripped of its humanity. The sound of the machine is a physical beast, untamed by the lifeless flicker of electronics that dance across the surface of our days with ever more light, but only to leave us blind.’