I Lived Completely Isolated for Almost a Year, and Never Knewby Ncubed02

By October, the isolation became unbearable

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
I had worked construction for the better part of my
twenties before the accident. I never had to know how
to get into engineering school, like my parents wanted for me,
but I preferred to work with my hands anyhow. Jobs
came and went, contracts ended, but ultimately had always had
a site to work or a building to put up.

(00:25):
When the Whitlam Hawthorne Group offered me a foreman position
for the construction project of their new headquarters, I accepted
in a heartbeat, job security from a company like WHG,
with a salary that I had only dreamed of and
benefits to match. Thought it would be stupid not to accept.
The foundation had barely been poured on the site when

(00:48):
the collapse happened. No one knew who exactly was to blame,
whether it was the surveyors, the engineers, or just some
freak accident. But those of us caught in the rubble
only had the pair company to point our fingers at.
Three men dead, thirteen injured. Was apparently a serious enough
legal threat that Whitlam Hawthorne opted to offer us each

(01:12):
a generous settlement outside of court. You could judge all
you want that my silence was bought, but six zeros
on a check I would buy yours too. In addition,
they also offered me a systems job that i'd be
able to work from home, and even a reduced renter's
rate at one of their apartment complexes in a unit

(01:33):
that would accommodate the wheelchair that I'd be confined to
the rest of my life. Until then, I didn't even
know they owned any residential properties, but the complex looked
decent enough on the pamphlet that they sent me. After all,
I certainly couldn't live alone in my current fourth floor
apartment anymore. I moved in nearly the beginning of February

(01:54):
last year. I won't lie the adjustment to everything it
once hit me a lot harder than it should have. Overnight,
I had gone from working outside every day to being
restricted to a wheelchair that I had no intuition for
using and being stuck inside all day long. My hard

(02:15):
hat and boots swapped for a work laptop and a
filing cabinet. The depression caused by my new situation was
only worsened when I got settled in. It was embarrassing
how little I own that would still be practical given
my new lifestyle. So it didn't take long for the
movers to bring everything over. I was moved in less

(02:39):
than day after I got out of the hospital. The
apartment was a first floor unit for obvious reasons. The
second and third floors each had units with patio balconies
that extended an outcrop over my minuscule fenced in yard.
As a result, the already tiny windows in my living
room barely got any sunlight during the day. Off to

(03:01):
the side of my living room, I had a kitchen
with lowered countertops and extended storage space on the lower shelves.
My bedroom was spacious, with a wheelchair accessible closet and
a roomy attached the bathroom. I wish I could say
that I was thankful, but the accommodations only reminded me
that I'd never live the same life again. Please don't

(03:23):
get me wrong, I'm absolutely not one of those guys
who sees disability as something that makes someone lesser. My
aunt was a wheelchair user when I was growing up,
and I had an older brother with special needs. Both
of them had my respect for as long as they lived,
but both of them had died because, in one way
or another, they depended on something that couldn't be provided

(03:47):
for them in her old age. My aunt fell out
of her chair at home one day, didn't have the
arm strength to crawl back up or reach the phone.
The medics said that her pets had begun to eat
her even before she died. My brother ended his own

(04:12):
life because my parents refused to get him the help
he needed. I still won't talk to my family for that.
And now, after almost thirty years of independence and ability,
it seemed as though every one of my prospects was
ripped from me, and I was entirely dependent on the

(04:34):
company that it caused it. In short, I was very,
very bitter. In June of that year, it was as
hot as it had ever been in my state. By then,
I'd settled into a dull routine. Wake up through a
few arm exercises before I showered, eat breakfast, and then

(04:55):
try to get some work done before lunch. What I
did could barely qualify as work, but it seemed like
the company thought it would be better to have me
under nda and payroll than risk me suing. Once lunch
came around, I would check my fridge for groceries and
add what I was running low on to my weekly
mobile delivery order. It was so much easier to have

(05:16):
someone else leave groceries at my front door than to
find a way to actually get to the supermarket. I
found a routine where I honestly never had to leave
the apartment. I avoided human interaction those days, so it
was easy to stay inside. The only voices I heard
for months were my neighbors. From what I could tell,
I lived underneath a married couple that never stopped fighting,
and in the unit next to me there was an

(05:37):
older woman with at least a couple more cats than
our lease allowed. On one particular morning mid June, as
I got out of the shower and dried my head,
I opened my eyes to find that the power in
my apartment had suddenly gone out. It was inevitable everyone
on the block had to have their AC units on
full blast. I finished drying off, and, for the first

(05:59):
time since I moved in, rolled over to the contained
sliding door attached to my living room and went out
into my small yard, where I knew i'd find the
breaker box. The outside air was hot, heavy, and as
I watched my toes brush against the grass, they couldn't
feel I noticed that without the noise of the AC

(06:22):
units running outside. It was very, very quiet. Not even
the sound of insects or birds filled the morning air.
For a moment, I let the morning sun rest of
my face before it would rise behind the patio, overshadowing
my yard. For as short as it lasted, the peace

(06:44):
that overwhelmed me was blissful. The silence was interrupted by
the sound of a sliding door from above, creaking wood
in the sound of footsteps, followed by the familiar arguing
voices I'd grown painfully custom to. If you don't want
to fix it, then I will. The wife's voice grew
louder as she moved above me. I never saw I

(07:07):
wouldn't do it, I said, give me a damn minute
to put my shoes on. Why are you away? I
zoned out as they were arguing continued above. Even the
briefest joy was fleeting, I thought. As I opened my
own fusebox and flipped the breakers. I heard my AC
unit were to life from outside my fence, muddying the
soundscape once more with its mechanical wine. At least it

(07:29):
drowned out the arguing above. As I struggled to figure
out how to wheel back over the lip on the
sliding door. I heard the arguing stop, and the couple's
sliding doors slide shut and close above me. I managed
to get back inside, and I hope that wouldn't have
to go out again anytime soon. I'm ashamed to admit

(07:51):
that that was the last time I went outside for months.
I'd gone no contact with the rest of my family
years ago, and what few friends I had lived out
of state. I had no reason to go out anymore.
So the summer's heat, paired with my depression, only forced
me inwards. Wake up, shower, eat, breakfast, work all day sleep.
Even the arguments upstairs and the occasional meal from the

(08:12):
unit next to me became monotonous. I drowned as much
of it out as I could, the same voices, the
same fights, the same cats misbehaving day in and day out.
In fact, as much as I tried to ignore it,
sometimes I couldn't help but listen in. The woman who

(08:35):
lived above me, whose name I gathered to be Claire,
was seemingly unemployed. She rarely spoke unless it was to
accost her husband for wrongdoing or to complain. Her husband,
whose name was Jackson Jason. Maybe he seemed to have
some anger issues, but seemed more defensive than aggressive. Cold

(08:57):
and distant paired with irritable and sensitive a perfect storm.
I never gathered the cat lady's name, and yet I
became very familiar with Greta, Priscilla, and Tom. Every day,
the woman would try to quiet Tom for crying too
loud for food, and sometime in the afternoon she would

(09:18):
have cost Greta and Priscilla for fighting over a nap
spot in the sunbeam. Having natural sunlight into the room
sounded like heaven. The voices were my only human connection.
It was mid September, when I attempted to clear my
throat of my developing allergies, that I realized I haven't
heard my own voice in months. I cried myself to

(09:42):
sleep that night, feeling more alone than I'd ever been.
By October, the isolation became unbearable. I found myself listening
to the voices more than I had ever wanted to,
quieting my apartment as much as possible just to catch
them when I could. The same fights, complaints, me ows.

(10:04):
They became my friends, my comfort. One night, out of
some sense of desperation or maybe just a form of
entertainment for myself. I started responding. It wasn't much at first,
just a quiet whisper and response to Claire's complaints. When
I heard her hiss, you never listened to me, I whispered,

(10:27):
I'm listening. When Jackson or Jason or whatever his name
was sighed and muttered, christ, I can't do this, I
chuckled and stuttered out of quiet me neither. I didn't
know why I kept it out. Maybe maybe just to
hear my own voice, Maybe because, in a pathetic way,

(10:50):
it made me feel like I was connecting with someone.
I knew it was stupid and illogical, but it made
things feel just a little less empty. It became a
kind of game for me. Each night, I sat in
the dim light of my apartment, sipping from one drink
too many, and I listened. I let their words become ours,

(11:14):
the fights, me ows, the mild chit chat. When Claire snapped,
you never take me seriously anymore, I whispered, of course
I do. Whenever the old woman called out the tom,
scolding him for knocking something over, I grinned and mumbled,
bad cat. It was more than a game. It was

(11:35):
all I had. Then about a week after I'd started,
I noticed it for the first time. Claire had just shouted,
for once in your life, admit that I might be right?
I responded, instinctively, should I when you're wrong? Before I

(11:57):
could finish my words, from above, her husband's voice exclaim
back to her, But why should I when you're wrong?
I paused for a minute or so, I sat intently listening.
I knew her words. It sounded familiar. But had I

(12:18):
heard the same argument before? I brushed it off At first?
Of course, it sounded familiar. I'd been listening to their
fights for months. I probably heard them bring up the
same talking points one hundred times, often enough that subconsciously
I probably just knew what he was likely to say.
But then the next day it happened again. Is it

(12:42):
that hard to get my cards registration done? I've been
overdue for almost a week, Claire snapped, And I knew
for a fact that I had heard that before, not
just something like that, those exact words and in that
exact tone, in that exact order, that in itself could
have been except except the first time I'd noticed it

(13:05):
had been in August. Her registration hadn't been expired for
a week. At this point it had been almost two months.
I turned off my AC and listened harder. My heart
thumped against my ribs. If it's no big deal, why
can't you go get it done for me? There? She

(13:26):
said that part too, I thought. I swallowed and realized
my mouth had gone dry. My palms began a cold
sweat as I grappled with the feeling that they'd done
this all before, many times coincidence, that's how it was.
Maybe their fights really were that predictable. I told myself

(13:50):
to ignore it, but I couldn't. That night, I lay
awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, my ears straining
to pick up what was being set above me. I
tried to convince myself that I was just being paranoid,
but something felt wrong. That next day, I kept notes

(14:15):
of what little I could hear around me on my computer.
In the past, I paid little attention to what was
being said and when, but on that day I was meticulous.
I kept every fan off, I didn't run my laundry,
I skipped my shower. I did everything in my power
to keep my home as quiet as possible, to maintain

(14:35):
the ability to transcribe every word being said from the
old woman next to me at eight fifteen am, Oh, tommy,
tom be quiet, I fed you already from upstairs, eight
seventeen am, clear on the phone. Yes he left for work. No,
it'll just be me until he comes home for lunch.
Twelve thirty two. Upstairs again, Jason, I told you not

(14:58):
to stay on the front door when you cut You
scare the hell out of me. Every time, all throughout
the day, anything I could struggle to make out I
made note of. The next morning, I awoke earlier than usual.
I had my notes, and I had some time, so
I showered and made my way to the middle of
the apartment to listen. Once again. I sat eagerly waiting,

(15:19):
checking my watch and waiting for signs of life. Then,
from the apartment adjacent to mine, at exactly eight fifteen am,
the woman began to speak, Oh, Tommy, tom be quiet,
I fed you already eight seventeen Yes, he left for work. No,

(15:41):
it'll just be me until he comes home for lunch.
And more. All morning long, I listened in awe struck
silence at my entire day's transcription being re enacted word
for word, minute by minute by By the time twelve
thirty two rolled around, and Claire complained about the door slamming.

(16:04):
I was sickened to realize that on neither day nor
any other, had I ever actually heard their door slam shut,
as if the same script had been read over and over,
just muffled enough and just faint to keep me from
noticing I needed air. So I did something I hadn't

(16:26):
done in months. I left my apartment. I struggled to
wheel out into the complexes courtyard, squinting against the sunlight.
The fresh air is strange but refreshing against my skin.
The apartment building wrapped around in a neat, uniform U shape,
with a mirroring building just across the narrow parking lot.

(16:47):
The second and third floor balconies of each building were
stacked like dull concrete shelves above my head. I looked
up at the couple's unit just above mine. The small
windows all had their blinds wide open, but I couldn't
make out movement inside. I wheeled turned to look at
the unit next to mine, where the old woman lived,

(17:08):
blinds open, but the same no movement inside. I realized
quickly that every unit in my building and the building
across the way was the same blind's open, no signs
of life. I sat there for nearly an hour watching,

(17:29):
not a single shadow moved behind the windows, no doors opened,
no one entered or left the building. The silence pressed
against me as I realized that not only were there
no people visible to me, there was no movement at all,
no birds, no passing cars, no distant voices from other tenants,
just the wind and the faint mechanical hum of the

(17:52):
ac units. Living isolated, It'll do strange things to your mind.
It'll make you keep track of things that societal norms
would normally remind you of, but it also makes you
ignore glaring truths right under your nose. It wasn't until
I sat there, utterly confused that I suddenly realized I

(18:14):
had never seen my neighbors, not once, not leaving their doors,
not in the parking lot, not on their balconies, despite
hearing their voices out there almost every night. I hadn't
even spoken to anyone in person. When I moved in.
I'd filled out all the paperwork online, and I had
been driven here by a company vehicle. When the movers
said they brought everything over, a sick feeling crept into

(18:41):
my stomach. I had lived here for eight months, eight
months of hearing these people argue, of hearing the woman
behind me talk to her cats, and I had never
once seen another human being in the flesh. The implication
had barely begun to set in when, almost in reaction

(19:03):
to my realization, the blinds in the apartment next to
me suddenly closed shut. They were followed only a few
seconds later by those belonging to the unit upstairs, and
in almost a cascade, all of the open blinds for
every unit in the building were closed. I moved faster
than I ever had in my chair. I wheeled quickly
out of the little courtyard into the parking lot. Surely

(19:27):
there had to be a leasing office somewhere nearby. As
I reached the lot, I looked both ways and saw
only rows and rows of identical buildings, the blinds on
each slowly closing. The movement rippling away from me, For
it seemed like miles of units. I'd never realized the
scale of the complex. As I hustled to find any

(19:50):
building that stuck out, I noticed that I still saw
absolutely nobody. Empty cars parked in lots, bicycles leaning against fences,
varying patio furniture, even children's toys left on sidewalks as
though they'd return shortly, all signs of life, but without
any life at all to be seen. After twenty minutes

(20:13):
of searching for any indication of an office, I returned
to my home. My arms were exhausted from moving more
than I had in a long time, and I knew
I couldn't keep searching forever. I made it back to
my unit not long after. For the surrounding windows blocked

(20:34):
from view by obtrusive blinds, my home felt bleak, solitary
amongst the rest of them. It didn't help that I
knew that somehow I really was the only one here.

(20:56):
I made it back inside, and I closed the front
door behind me. Not one second later, as I turned
to go to my room, a chime startled me, and
I realized that my doorbell had been rung. I immediately
turned back to reopen the door, but outside there was
no one to be seen. Just this my weekly grocery delivery,

(21:16):
sitting neatly on my doormat, impossibly waiting where it hadn't
been only five seconds prior. The following days were a blur.
Had there actually bean anyone outside to look at my apartment.
They would have seen me wildly going from window to window,
peering through blinds, like a tweaker waiting on a package.

(21:40):
For about a week, all the arguing, the meowling, the
idle conversation that had repeatedly permeated my walls went absolutely silent.
Whatever was going on it caught wind of my curiosity
and stopped, as though to gather itself and prepare. And prepare.
It must have, since when the sounds of human voices
and interaction actions reappeared a week later, they'd changed, new arguments,

(22:05):
new discussions, even a new cat supposedly added to the bunch.
The second day that the voices were back, I noticed
that they were different from the day before. The conversations
were new the next day as well, and the day
after that. For seven days I almost allowed myself to
believe that maybe I'd been imagining things. I even began

(22:25):
to hear the occasional car outside slowly creeping past, maybe
something I somehow hadn't noticed before. On the eighth day
of the return of the noises, however, my heart sank.
Repeated phrases returning arguments and interactions that had already hastily

(22:49):
taken note of one week prior. The next day followed
suit they'd learned, but only a little bit. Whatever loop
was being played for me was now a whole week's
worth of audio, not just a day's worth. Even the
passing cars returned exactly at the same time I'd remarked
the week prior, but now that I was looking for them,

(23:10):
I could tell that they were driverless. Two weeks had
passed since I left my apartment, and a thought occurred
to me, what would happen if I tried to interrupt

(23:31):
the routine. I checked my notes of the prior two
weeks and began to prepare a plan. The next day,
the old woman would chastise her cats for ganging up
on the new kitten at exactly nine thirteen and three seconds. However,
I would knock on her door at nine thirteen, hopefully
forcing whatever charade was about to be performed for me

(23:53):
to have to be adjusted. The next morning, I prepared myself.
I shaved for the first time in weeks. I made
sure I looked at as presentable as possible. I couldn't
give them any reason or excuse to not open the
door for me. I waited in front of the door
for about two minutes, my eyes locked onto my wristwatch
and my ears as alert as they'd ever been. The
very second my little Kalico turned nine thirteen, I knocked

(24:15):
as loudly as I could without sounding aggressive, and was
sure to stop knocking in less than the three seconds
it would take her to start talking. I waited with
bated breath, far longer than I thought I should have.
Three seconds felt like a minute, and by the time
an actual minute rolled around, hours had gone by. In

(24:36):
my mind. I was satisfied enough of my ability to
interrupt the cycle, and as I turned my chair to
return back home, something spoke to me from behind the door.
Who is it? Three words? Three new words, spoken undeniably

(25:00):
in response to me. But whatever was speaking to me
was not It wasn't an old woman. I don't know
if I could even call it human. The words felt disjointed,
as though stitched together from other phrases, distorted in a
rushed attempt to sound coherent. I barely had time to

(25:20):
collect my thoughts before the voice called out again. The
words the same, but the cadence and tones shifted, attempting
to emulate normally human speech. It sounded more natural, but
it was still undeniably inhuman. Who is it? I'm I'm

(25:41):
your neighbor from next door? Who is it? The voice
called once more, As to my horror, the door creaked open.
I braced myself to see something horrible waiting for me inside,
some mockery of a human being waiting to lunge at
me from the darkness. But but darkness, inky, black and concealing,

(26:05):
was all that greeted me from behind the door. The
door opened and full, and as what little sunlight that
could pour inside, there was absolutely no one inside, absolutely
no movement, no sign of life, save for a voice
that called out from the doorway, now in perfect form.

(26:29):
Who is it? I peered my head inside the doorway,
and as I did, I felt myself through a threshold,
icy and cold. Worse was a feeling of loneliness that
seemed to inject itself into my veins. In all my

(26:51):
months of being alone, I had never felt it quite
so intensely as when I crossed through that door. Because
I entered the living room, only one thing about the
otherwise unremarkable home stood out. A wheelchair, fallen over onto
its side, lay in the middle of the floor. I

(27:13):
couldn't see anything around it, but it was surrounded by
sounds of slow, methodical chewing and the occasional tearing of
flesh partnered with a hungry mew. I left immediately after

(27:37):
that day. The pre written schedules changed more often and
far more sporadically. Sometimes I would go dazed without hearing anything.
Sometimes entirely new arguments would appear in days I thought
I documented, and occasionally the cars that would pass would
make a turn that they hadn't before. Every action was hollow, though,
and every voice was attached to nobody real I knew

(27:59):
that much for certain. I started to review my options.
I hadn't seen another human being for the better part
of a year, and I doubted that that would change
unless I somehow got out of this complex. But where
would I go. There was no one to come and
pick me up. I hadn't opened my work laptop in weeks,
and I knew no one in whatever city I was in.

(28:22):
Did I even know where I was at? I vaguely
remembered the offer after the accident and the company men
coming to get me from the hospital, and my mind
struggled to remember the actual order of events. That led
me to living here. The more I puzzled it over,
the less it made sense. As far as I could

(28:44):
piece together, I had been in the accident. Some suits
had visited me in the hospital when I woke up.
They explained vaguely what happened, and that the company wanted
to avoid legal troubles, so they passed me over the
check and the new job offer, as well as a
pamphlet for the apartment. I remember were signing my lease
information online from the hospital, and then and then I

(29:08):
remember being brought here directly from there? Had it been
that immediate? Had been such a days I didn't recognize
the strangeness of the situation. My thoughts were interrupted by
a knocking my door, not a doorbell, a knock, three
solid knocks, echoing through my apartment. A chill ran as

(29:32):
far down my spine as I still had feeling, and
I slowly began to wheel myself towards the front door.
I stopped in the kitchen to grab a knife on
my way. Who Who's there, I asked, my voice tinged
with panic. There was no answer for a moment. Then,

(29:54):
softly and meticulously, from the other side, I heard my
own voice broken and stitched together called back to me,
I'm I'm your neighbor from next door. I flung the
door open, brandishing the large steak knife out into the

(30:17):
open air. I couldn't see anyone in front of me,
but I knew that something was there. I sat wildly,
swinging the knife in front of me, and the voice
called again, from right in front of my face, I'm
your neighbor from next door. There was a shimmer in

(30:38):
the air, a glint of sunlight, a distortion outlining a
shape that was unambiguously humanoid, and it was entering the
threshold of the door, slowly creeping towards me. This was
my only chance. With all the strength that could muster,
I hurled the knife towards the no One in my entryway,
and as it passed through the glimmering shape, I knew

(31:01):
so could I. I pushed myself towards the no One,
and as I entered its form, a cold i'd only
ever felt once before shot through my veins. The icy
sting sought to freeze me in place, and the empty
solitude that pressed in around me should have taken all
the steam out of me, but I didn't let it.
I could feel it now. It was real, it could

(31:22):
be escaped. I made my way through the form, and
as I looked back as it turned toward me, its
non existent unbeing making haste to attempt to swallow me
up once more. I was faster than it thought, and
as I turned the corner out of the courtyard into
the street, I forced myself to ignore the burning of
my arms and kept pushing myself onward. As I rolled

(31:44):
as fast as I could, I looked at the identical
buildings surrounding me. Through every blind through every crack door,
there was nothing and no one watching me. I felt eyes,
hungry and jealous, piercing me from all sides. No one
was trying to keep me here, but I wouldn't give
it the satisfaction. I caught glimpses from my peripheral vision
of glimmering nothings, clamoring out of doors and emerging from

(32:08):
part cars. I felt chills run through my body once more,
as I must have passed through a group of them,
their arms outstretched attempting to grab me. Whatever they were
or weren't, I don't think they could touch me. I
could feel them. More and more of them piled out
of front doors, sprinting towards me, the air around me

(32:30):
beginning to ripple as they amassed in numbers. He reminded
me of waves of heat emanating from the roofs of
cars under the summer sun. No one's fingers clawed me
as I pushed through thousands of them, voices cracking, warped,
stitched together nonsense surrounding me with their their fractal cries.

(32:51):
After it felt like an eternity through the shimmering crowd
that wasn't there. I saw what I'd been longing for.
The end, reached the edge of the complex. It wasn't
anything special, as far as I could tell, no barrier
or wall that would have hindered my escape. I pushed
myself harder and faster than my exhausted arms should have
been able to, But every icy claw that pressed through

(33:14):
my blood renewed my vigor. The moment I crossed the threshold,
the screams collapsed in the silence. The air behind me
felt full, no empty frozen fingers, no, no warped voices,
no nothing. I didn't dare look back, though not yet.

(33:36):
I rolled over the crosswalk and came to rest at
the bus stop. Across the street. I finally let my
aching arms rest and they collapsed to my sides. I
sat for a moment, tears rolling down my cheeks, wreaking
of sweat and body odor. I must have looked insane,

(34:00):
and even to the scraggly homeless man that sat on
the bench, I didn't care. He would never know it,
but I loved him simply for being there. I eventually
found my strength and wearily turned my wheelchair towards the
complex that had entrapped me for a year of my life.

(34:25):
I don't think I'll ever be able to explain what
I saw before me lay an unassuming dirt lot not
larger than a football field, unattended construction equipment lay dormant,
and a porta potty lay toppled and vandalized. In the
back corner. Surrounding the perimeter of the lot was a

(34:48):
chain link fence. A land development sign stood at the perimeter.
Read letters crisp and clean, as if freshly posted beneath
an art surrendering of a sleek new building, the words
coming soon Whitlam Hawthorne Research Complex. Hey did you like

(35:17):
that creepy pasta story that you heard today? I bet
you did because you'd stuck around to hear the outro.
So if you want to find more Creby positories like this,
check out the links in the description down below lead
you over to the creep Pasta collection Volume one and
Volume two. Volume one and Volume two also have a
bunch of stories from some of the best authors I've
worked with in the past fifteen years, which I think
is pretty high praising sains. This is like, what four
thousand stories, That's right, four thousand stories. Subscribe you'll see them.

(35:39):
But yes, two books available Amazon linked down below. Check
them out. Also, I want to give a huge thank
you to everybody on this list of patreons. Some of
these amazing folks are Diana Krauss, Acid System, Blake Rattler,
Brandon Mendoza, Redda Crow, Cawtuna Chicago hit Man, Corey Kenscher, Crusader, Jocobo,
Dakota Best, Dange Polsen, Don Taking Kaid Enchanted Buns as
to Bean Hadie's nephew Himbo, Jerry how a Minute, Second Time, Inger,
Girt Salstrom, Jay kurtns Jettis, Pat mcmogg, Mister Marcus Splitz,

(36:00):
Psychomel Plant Piss, Red Shadow Cat. Remember the Sun, Salty Surprise,
samar Len, Seclude, Simbas, Bloody Mojo, Sky, Harper Smiley, The
Psychotic Sully Man, Tolly Sue, Team LAO seventy six, The
Demended Voice in Your Head, The Chavez Brothers, The Jugger Bros,
Tommy Walters, Vice, Roy Scorn, William Wellington, You're Bro, Keegan
zubub and Shadow Gardens. A huge thank you to you guys,
everybody who shows up in the description down below, and
as always, folks, sweet dreams,