"What you hold in your hands is not exactly for you. It is not a delight for your senses, nor sonic inspiration for transgressing your restraints. It is not your empowerment tool. It is manifestly theirs— a portal to their arena of power, powerlessness, joy, hate, anger, fear, and failure. None of it is yours. Still, can you plug in, tune in, lock in to their dial? Are you capable of not giving in to escape and instead absorbing it? Are you capable of asking for more? You want the channel? Here it goes: the channel is walk into the dark and dance. Bop and beg. Lean and laugh. Stare and stomp. Afterwards, go ahead and yell “I failed!” Ride along to the signal-notes that ring like sirens across the city warning you that an odorless noxious gas has just been released into the air. But don’t run. Instead, lean into the pulse. The channel is bop your head, bounce your ass, sing, wade, stomp, and scream. Canal Irreal has rescinded and revoked your access to the splendid metropolis. The channel is fuck you. The channel is don’t ask them about Chicago, you don’t know it. The channel is don’t ask them about the fish; the Lake has consumed them all. Walk toward the darkness. Listen to the whispers and less to the wind. Lift your arms up to the melodic swings. Bounce your feet to the snap of the snare and flow of the bass. But don’t lose yourself—lock in. Are you capable of asking for more? Find the canal, or be clicked out by the clicker. Hold on to the wavelength or go back to normie-land. Canal Irreal is not hard or dark, it’s a portal to the personal, to desperation and exasperation. Go ahead and scream: “Doy todo y mucho mas.” This channel is not for your liberation. But do please tune in. What channel are you on now? Canal de mierda. Canal de chingado. Canal de sobrevivir. Canal Irreal. Bienvenidos." -Mike Amezcua