$50.00
In the silent liminal spaces where worlds collide—edges of reality blurred and voices whisper in a language no ear fully understands—the tongues began to talk to each other. Not in words, but in vibrations, in frequencies that shimmered like broken glass across the thin membrane separating dimensions. They spoke in a language of shadows and echoes, communicating in a code only the unseen could interpret.
Amidst this strange exchange, the **"SPYKES - All Nourishment Intervals"** played softly in the background—an obscure one-sided lathe pic disc LP spinning endlessly, its grooves resonating with the unspoken conversations of the liminal voices. A mix CD laid nearby, filled with distorted whispers and haunting melodies, while a handmade loop tape set hummed with looping fragments of sound—an endless cycle of nourishment, decay, and renewal.
In the depths of the basement, where moisture clung to the walls and debris formed a natural fortress, the unseen inhabitants stirred—oriental cockroaches, the silent denizens of sewers and forgotten corners. They thrived in the damp darkness, slipping through floor drains, along utility pipes, and under door thresholds, their tiny legs scurrying in the shadows. They felt at home in this moist, neglected realm, where sanitation was a distant memory and the air was thick with secrets.
The tongues of the liminal worlds whispered secrets of decay and survival—talking in a language that sounded like scratching on metal, or the faint skittering of tiny legs on damp concrete. The cockroaches listened, sensing the vibrations, understanding that in this place, the boundaries between worlds had dissolved. They moved in response, their presence a quiet testament to resilience, thriving where others would fear to tread—under leaves, stones, and in the cracks of forgotten foundations.
As the LP spun on, its surface shimmering with unseen energy, the voices in the liminal space grew bolder. They spoke of nourishment intervals—times when the boundaries thinned, when the unseen could slip through the cracks and into the realm of the living. The basement was a nexus, a place where insects, spirits, and memories converged, feeding on the moisture and decay that sustained their silent existence.
In that strange, liminal world, the tongues talked in a language of survival—an ancient, unspoken dialogue that carried on beneath the surface, beneath the music, beneath the layers of time and space. And in the darkness, the cockroaches continued their quiet march, aware that in this place, the boundaries were merely illusions, and the whispers of the unseen would always find a way to speak.
Edition of 1, numbered