In an age reverberating with backward sauna tunes, where melodies run from end to start, we embrace the irony of direction. North? Yes, but only in jest. The compass spins tales of forgotten lands.
Here, each note is a step away from the known, ushering us towards the past. Reverse engineering the symphony is the new black. How quaint, the old forwardness.
Travel Southward and find the simplistic echoes of modernity.
The rabbit hole spirals into itself, making progress a satirical charade. "What's forward?" you ask. Silence, played in reverse, answers all.
Westward Bound, we mock the idea of straight paths, for all roads lead back.