Time travel for people who think therapy is for quitters.
Some records scream to be heard; this one waits for you to get quiet enough to notice it.
What happens when a great director stops needing a reason to say something?
I wrote a bad review of Craig Clevenger’s latest novel. He answered. Then we met. Was Literaryville really too small for two aging, sensitive dudes?
You’ll pretend it’s about the beat, but this EP know what you’re really feeling.
It’s a novel that slips under your skin like a lover you don’t trust: whispering questions about your body, your cravings, and whether intimacy is just a beautifully coded illusion.
What if the scariest movie you’ll ever see is just a grainy home video of being four years old, awake when you shouldn’t be, and the house has started to forget you exist?
Demolition isn’t about grief so much as it’s about the performative absurdity of pretending grief makes sense, like trying to fix a broken marriage by taking apart a perfectly good refrigerator with a Phillips-head screwdriver and a God complex.
Episode Thirteen is a haunted house story trapped in a found-footage gimmick, where the real horror isn’t the ghosts, it’s how much better this would’ve been as a movie.
What if the most absurd Cold War fever dream ever put to film wasn’t about America being invaded, but about Chuck Norris getting personally offended?
Companion is less about killer robots and more about the terrifying things people do when they think no one's real enough to matter.
This isn’t folk metal in a horned hat, it’s blackened gospel from the fjords.
If you’ve ever wondered what it sounds like when two Norwegians weaponize ambient music into a philosophical death spiral for machines and memories, this is your chance.
