Contagious Illusion

I hear this locked at one-two-two and recognise the gait immediately: it prowls rather than pounds, yet the energy is relentless as Shackleton maps A minor into a labyrinth of ricocheting percussion and cavernous sub-bass pressure. Every microscopic detail feels etched with dread; there is no empty space, only deepening shadow threatening to swallow the room whole.

I would drop this in that precarious hour when the dancefloor trusts the selector enough to follow them into darkness. It functions as a black hole in my bag, sucking the room into its orbit before anyone realises the temperature has plummeted, leaving only the sheer, suffocating weight of that intensity behind.