FOREWORD by DARYL CHOW and MayhemCHEN 

What this is, is a feeling. Gloriously upheld, furiously denied. A rumbling emanating forcing its way through whichever orifice we fail to keep tabs on. Sketches of our soul scribbled on scraps scattered to the wind. A forcibly buried mirror, a weed endowed with parasitical powers far beyond its host, a monkey bursting from its rock, a broken vow of silence.
   Inspiration.

What this is, is blessed, improved memory. The regurgitated echoes that travel through our mind squirrelling hermit-crablike coyer and faster than the most frivolous female. They are all we were rationed out after we stood for hours in the rain. The currents they create is the currency of time cheaply converted. Time is what made us, is what we are.
   Influence.

What this is, is mayhem. Carefully considered, dangerously disowned, left to find its tottering path like a single-parented infant in a dysfunctional world. Like a battered daisy creeping toward the light. Pandemonium is a menagerie compared to the state of what we allowed ourselves to become just because someone refused to be responsible. Or perhaps this is self-attrition, curious masochism, preservation of the species through the survival of the fittest. Suicide is natural selection at its creative best. Madness and mayhem is a celebration of life itself.
   Insanity.

What we do, is extract logic. We sail the charted waters because there's nowhere left to go. We harvest the byzantine labyrinth but because we were told the inner limits are out of bounds we only traverse the safe bits. But we try. Music from waves, oil from your garden, blood from a stone. We try our best. But we remain imperfect translators, our treasure map needs intepretation and craves a keen wit.

What we do, is battle. Not the way the fighter hurls his fearless frame into the fight, not the way the magician hurls the classic lightning bolt but the way the drafted, disgrunted dwarf hurls abuse at friend and foe, his sense of humour his only ally in his own fight to keep his wits intact. We love that dwarf.

What we do, is struggle to be heard. In whatever language you understand, in whatever volume you can muster, have a listen. Try it on but you don't have to buy it.

Who we are - who we are is unimportant. Dust to the wind, dinner to the worms. This is the sum of our parts, our lowest common denominator, our renegade love child. Who we are is what this is.