cryin' Branston
Remember the summer of 95? The whole town smelled of melted tar from the roads. The sun was a deep-fried basilisk tacked to the sky, daring you to look at it. And all us kids were indoors by 7, because at dusk the drainlords had the run of the town. If they touched you, you'd never wash that touch off your skin: each day it'd take something more, strip out a layer of what made you you, til you rang when tapped like a hollow in a wall. Best to stay indoors; plug up your nose; never, ever look up.
Favorite track: Stare At The Void.