Thomas Walsh's Epictaphora is a tense and atmospheric fever dream, something to accompany a paranoia filled acid trip. The album's four tracks are atmospheric, ambient, and electric and walls of sound are built up from an intricate tapestry of sonic textures before being torn away in a wash of electric bursts and muffled footfalls. There are glimpses of softer things: a distant piano, a faded swell of hopeful melody, tittering morse code-like messages fading in and out of the ether.

Epictaphora begs the question—"What will it sound like as the future factory workers of the impending dystopia toil on the assembly line?" They will tell you that it is hard to fully drown out the mechanical sounds of the riveting, difficult to concentrate over the incessant din. The robot overlords have their own brand of noise, but occasionally in the late afternoon, when the line is quieter and some soft light filters in through the pollution and grime-caked factory windows, you can briefly glimpse a beautiful space beyond the murk. Right before the vista is obscured, yet again by the goddamned insect men.

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