The mailbox today contained but one lonely envelope, labeled mysteriously with only my handwritten name. I sighed, noticing the stench of filthy melting snow, and tore the envelope open. It contained one crisp, meticulously-folded sheet of paper with the following message on it:

I heard a siren singing in the distance and pondered this development. It was beyond me-- I was tired. Once the sky was well dark, I re-opened the letter and pondered its words. I placed my review disc in the stereo, dimmed the lights, and turned the words around in my mind. Precisely 64 minutes and 34 seconds later, I understood. The synchronicity was staggering and I wondered who'd left the note-- how could they know I would make the connection? As the World Burns raised these questions, as well as answers.

I learned that I had the mix. And after some experimentation with Butt-Lube, I realized the can was my stereo. I heard the enlightenment by these rap-happy rhyme-masters quickly enough, their rhymes falling all over one another with unmatchable breadth and energy. In one breath, they bemoaned ghetto crime. In the next, they talked shit about each other's mamas. The enlightenment was hidden in the incredible mix of East-coast aggression, social commentary and intelligent humor. And, all this before I mention the music...

The beat, oh the beats. At first seemingly hidden between their non-stop rhymes, the music creeps into your consciousness slowly, imparting a paranoid, ominous atmosphere. It's broken by frequent asides into mirth, samples, breaks and crowd shout-outs. In this darkened room, my life felt so much fuller than that of a lowly music reviewer. The energy level made me want to go out to the bars and meet some ladies... instead of indulging in internet porn (again). As The World Burns has transformed me from a pasty computer geek to a super potato-penised stud. Keep your pimp hand strong. Gotta go.

-James P. Wisdom