Guest
The flawed wonders that Yair Elazar Glotman puts forth on his latest opus I know no weekend are the coldest dreams you would ever wish to immerse yourself in. They recall echoes of echoes, forced into slowly struggling shapes; ghosts of memories, whispers of life from another dimension. Shamanic-repetitive beats shift slowly beneath echoing bells and fragments of past transmissions. Overwhelmingly, one is taken into upon a winding mental path, with no clear resolution in sight, although the journey is ever-
