You've got no choice but to be a nomad now, trekking the circuitous footpaths that modern society had left to erode. Insurmountable odds are stacked against you, but you've endured thus far, and you're clever enough to cease and accept the victor's crown. Instead, you create your own laurels, a wreath of loose vegetation and woody thorns that prick at your scalp, an omnipresent reminder of the pain.

20 tracks