Much has been made of Mr. Siratori’s unchecked outpouring of textured black silt, but the fact remains that quantity and quality don’t necessarily rage hand-in-hand. Whether an artist paints a painting a day or a decade matters little if the results rule. And Harakiri is a formidable and dense subterranean canal/C50 of wrecked electric waste and toxic sludge flowing ceaselessly into a bottomless pit. A good hypnotic void to pour in yr ears for the better chunk of an hour, semi-reminiscent of Black Monk’s drumless jams. Word is Kenji labors a lot on his alternate career as a cyberpunk novelist, and that makes plenty of sense in light of this audio apocalypto. Black tapes in cases with tactile art paper J-cards and cases stuck with hand-cut black shape runes. Hand-numbered edition of 64.