The future, born from a desire to digitally manipulate aural stimulus, is in your head between cartilage-crafted receptacles unwittingly bewitched by the snap/crackle/pop spitfire of desktop media. Resistance is futile, given the remarkable degree to which these sounds have been appropriated by scenesters, intellectual busybodies, and advertising execs alike. SND, Porter Ricks, Pole, Basic Channel, Pan Sonic-- these are our forbears. They were the ones that imbedded the torch in the pitifully natural and unsuspecting holster of your mind. The seed is planted.

We annihilate the preconceived beat, the accidental tweakage negating personal grasp on rhythmic time and harmonic texture. You won't know what you're listening to, apart from the dispersion and propagation of our sounds. You'll hear convention and expectation give way to the skittering minimalist handling of truth via technology. You'll hear the present copulate with the future at 128kb/second. And you'll undoubtedly hear endless variations on this theme.

The future is promiscuous, the present its plaything. Our approach will be streamlined, the results effervescent in their transparency. Works will crackle and hum, paradigms will fall to the irregular cadences of static. We know what you sound like from the inside. We have multiplied and are bringing it all together. The threads tighten, the balance stabilizes. This is merely another tasteful indication that further encroachments upon your stolid humanisms are forthcoming, and will forge a new world order.

Ease your fear with submission. Temper your ignorance with understanding. Recognize that the underbelly of civilization is mechanized, and that the mammalian blubber of complacency is being shed. Strip the outer layer and indulge in space as sound. Forgive the throb of bass as you would a bodily function. Submerge awareness experientially with the proper distortion of restraint and geometric composition. This you will do for your own good, and the good of electronic organism. The amoeba has now given way to the byte, and there's no going back from it.

Avenues of binary logistics will swell to fuzzy orchestrations of sense, demarcated by click, bounce, and pitch. The tools lie behind, the blood flows ahead. Our paths have been chosen, the slopes slippery with the sweat of our endeavors. Do not underestimate the thrust of our development. An astral plane of recording is our repose, residence, and resolution. You will not be left behind.

-S. Murray