That drone cuts through my head, shards of glass mounted memory in ruptured angles. Inscribed scars of guitar knit over high-end cracks, hailstorms that grind, screech and decay. A rack of bells tremble, clatter as electro-prodded spikes jut out cactus like, as crushed metal is intersected by gnarling doubts and broken promises. From towers of plugs the angels cry blood, scratching out accolades of warm flesh from screaming mouths. Pity the pictures failed to capture all this, but pleasant to come away from the Cube with ringing ears for a change, digital spider monkeys playing in my brain all the way home.