Amazing and incredibly interesting review in form of a short story by "All Shools Network"

It's really rare that I'm overwhelmed when it comes to music and, above all, it's even rarer that I lack the words to be rewritten and what I hear. Well, they do exist but these moments, these plates that I can hear it so often and yet I find no coherent sentence to one. NAME are fucking assholes, because they play with my intellect, because they remove me without warning me. I have admitted it, they can play with me and now I have the salad. I'm sitting here in a white room, the walls are padded with rubber and over again without wishing I could, I jump up and run with start-up against the wall. The rubber prevents that I violated, the strait-jacket, however, prevents it as well that I can support myself on impact on the ground with their hands and therefore always falls on my already battered head, lose consciousness, and again this abstruse obscure and but it must hear so calculated music. I myself am guilty, I did not want it otherwise.

So I lay there on the floor, bound, his arms behind his back and walk through my subconscious. Time and again I feel are ridiculous figures, armed with microphones, instruments and both screaming, and grunting dark and clear singing voices. You want to tell me something. A story that only they speak a language you do not understand. I only know the story is called "Internet Killed The Audio Star" and is among others of "Killer Whales, Man"! This is the info with which they leave me alone, plug in their instruments to the current, short aufhusten and then start bashing me. They seek their prey from the targeted, it can not defend. I am looking for structure, to understand. After a clue. But can not hear myself think. NAME rush around the corner disappear in an ambient nothingness and dip in the technical mess up again. They have masks on. Masks that represent the distorted faces. They provided her with a mess hall, I yell at me for minutes and then open up the art of break downs. This is the second in which I begin to understand. I think at least. Think again. What are the jazz musicians doing there in the other cell? He's still only just getting his medications that were given to me even today. I scream. NAME screams. It's getting dark, I hear the clicking of the door handle and wake up.

Men in white coats enter my cell. There are four. They talk quietly on me. Tell me that everything will be fine. I believe them. Get scared but when two of them fall on me, pressing my legs and my head on the floor. The third grabs his belt bag and pulls out a syringe, it tackles and chases me into the vein. Strange feeling. Liberating and somehow reassuring. But what about the fourth man, who stands legs apart all the time about me and grins at me? With a start he makes a face as if he had pain attacks, on the back, grabs and pulls the skin off his face. Just do the others, except that which suddenly dissolves into air, and what comes to light them, are the faces that seem familiar to me from my subconscious. I panicked eyes to tear and the game starts over. The man who abused me with his voice tells me about his girlfriend, and uses the words "My Sweetheart, The Whore". It is not I who is crazy, it's you my friend, I think to myself, while screaming at me again softly whispers into the ear without. What is wrong not only with you, I think, you're manic depressive, you have an aggression problem? I just want to express my thoughts when I first guitar neck and then a blood taste. This will be my end.

NAME can not but that I escape the chaos because, in my subconscious to become unconscious and go on with other strategy. It would have been "Empathic Communicator" that can also tell a coherent, 20-minute history. Instead, they prefer to divide it into four acts: "Part I: Homage To The Hunter (Unconscious Incompetence)", "Part II: Bee Bee (Conscious Incompetence)", "Part III: Your Sun Machine, Your Space Embracer (Conscious Competence)" and "Part IV: How To Murder The Earth (Unconscious Competence)". I am beginning to understand the intentions of the people that make me stand there and to realize that everything that happens here is cold calculus to me to destroy systematically. But not directly. For first they play me fantastically beautiful melodies, show me that they can do differently. Fast conciliatory one might think. I rely not on it. I close my eyes, I flee to another place, just to escape for a few seconds of torture. I reach for the saving hand. Realize too late that it is the wrong one and I'm back in the cell. Once again, buzzing around comic characters: "The Sycophant, The Saint & The Gamefox", rear sitting in the corner "Dave Mustaine," but I do not know who that is, strangely enough only know his name before and I know not to do as all want here.

And then suddenly everything goes very quickly. The controlled chaos is uncontrolled. NAME over themselves to take no longer me apart, but operate on each other at the open chest. They destroy their melodies, their structure, they break down into its individual parts. Add them together again. Everything is in one sense. The missing puzzle piece is found, but has called for looking his victims. The white cell is mottled red, lifeless bodies lying around me, and I'm suddenly a straitjacket more. I found myself in the room and me dripping down blood. Only it's not mine. The camera pulls back from the Close-Up in the long shot and I myself see as a bloody, grinning diabolically monster with a giant knife in his hand. One of the lifeless figures turns her head to me and with great effort she shares with me spitting blood: "You'll Never Die in This Town Again". Before he spoke the words over, I ram my knife into the neck and sacs on the wet ground, where I breathe my last gasping breath. He was right, but I said yes, NAME are assholes.