We go through 2 lighters a day. When and why the fuck did everyone lose their sense of humor? Fuck this shit. Is this going to work on the radio? Fuck it New studio. Old friendships rekindled. No expectations. Love for days. Still techno. Still us. A disaster by anyones estimation. Built in fucking Utrecht of all places, on a foundation of wobbly Dutch bread. Deeply weird. If only it were that simple. When the going, gets weird, the weird turn pro. We get stupid. We get raw, we do the dumbest shit, you ever saw. Ear worms for days. Gorgeous chaos every minute. Plunging toward disaster with each and every passing second. Thus sayeth. The Masters of Disasters.