$25.00
The moment you press play, the cassette doesn’t spin—it burrows. The spools unwind into wet black threads that slither through your nostrils, wrapping around cartilage, weaving a cross-mesh lattice inside your face. The hiss becomes bone-saw static.
Soon your sinuses are no longer cavities but reel housings. The infection is not viral, not bacterial—it is magnetic. Each sneeze sprays a thin ribbon of tape, unspooling across the floor, the oxide coated with your own blood-mucus hybrid. Every cough sounds like a warped choir, feedback looped through the hollow spaces of your skull.
Side A: You taste rust. A deviated septum becomes a split track, one channel playing nasal congestion at 120 bpm, the other dripping headache drones that bloom into forehead pressure symphonies. Antibiotics pour from your tear ducts in crushed-pill sludge.
Side B: Polyps blossom into speakers. They hum. Your nose is now a twin-cone cabinet, vibrating with allergic hymns. Bad breath rolls out like fog from a broken smoke machine, carrying faint voices: “CT scan… structural correction… meningitis as encore.”
Your face no longer belongs to you—it belongs to the cassette. The Cross Over Brain has crossed into brain. Each rewind scrapes memory away, spooling your childhood into mucus, your language into static.
At the final click, the cassette is gone. But your head still runs, endlessly looping. A portable tape deck of flesh. Anyone can press play by tapping your temples.
And the only track it knows is sinusitis, forever rehearsed.
Edition of 1, numbered.