Bugslife sinks four transmissions deep into the canopy floor — where the bass thickens into sediment and instinct replaces intention. The undergrowth pulses with its own logic, something small and insistent threading through the rot, alive before it has a name.
A predatory slither runs through the closing stretch, stalking the low end through dense foliage until neither hunter nor hunted can tell the difference. Tropic Mud does not invite you in — it pulls you under, slowly, by the ankles.
