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A pensive moon hangs low on the anniversary of the vile Filth Serf's passing, casting sterile shadows across a scavenger wandering into the ruins of an abandoned drive-in theater. The scent of artificial butter lingers heavy in the air. An impenetrable mist of stagnant memories. Rummaging behind the counter, the scavenger observes a large metal switch, above which a faded piece of masking tape reads "Probably Nothing". With questionable resolve the scavenger reaches out. And thus begins the ritual of memory...
Dedicated to Max; whose smile was more moving than any beat found on this album...We'll miss you.
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