T. Mick Donald

Boom…boom, boom. Tribal, house, eerie beats. Mind lost, groovin’, bumpin’. Progressivley spindling in liquified licorice ropes of thougt that dissovle like cotton candy, sizzling into popping atoms. Canals of turqoise flow a’round purple pyramids that rotate in the retina of the opiate-induced mentale of the bearded lady lying in the freak tent, leaking onto the fabric …