A Prince whose body constantly dissolves and reassembles leads us into an ancestral tunnel, layered like a bazaar. At the eighteenth minute the light goes out and returns intermittently, marked by the rhythm of Bingo Bongo.
From the darkness crawls an ignoble spirit with squat features and a guttural voice, leading us off course to the gates of the gulf. The air suddenly turns hot, the current widens. The inner whistle of the viscera echoes from the deepest abyss. The shadow of its pain vanishes in the wake of a final sonic sedimentation.