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Berlin '84 is a gestalt made up of two separate and opposing personalities. The first was raised on the hypothetical plane of last week's pay cycle by parentage of discarded fentanyl patches and the fatty deathlike sweetness of rotten feijoa. The other is the result of a foul drunken tryst between the fleece lining of a dead hipster's sherpa jacket and a 17th century plague mask. Both appreciate a certain apathetic mix of schadenfreude and your own fetid despair. They live in Melbourne and don't mind staring at you on public transport.