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The peaks are but a gaze suspended between melancholy and fear. The soul that for a moment gains the dominant view.
Like the damaged melody of track one if preceded by the electric taste of rain. It matters little if up there grace stumbles and trembles.
Then a rattling, both mechanical and tribal, is the first blow to the heart. Dreams quickly turn into nightmares.
Track two is a blissful obsession that illuminates and digs. The sky embraces an unrelenting drone alluding to the order that holds things together. In any case, probably, we are all crazy.
Three, four, five, six, seven are very white pebbles, then bread crumbs. It is dangerous to get lost in the woods. It is impossible not to get lost in the woods.
Meanwhile, it is getting dark. Nothing will be achieved by the flames of minimal music, the miniatures à la Moebius Roedelius.
Nothing...
Eight is a cosmic alarm, nine a successful nightmare. Imagine the Popul Vuh affiliated with paranoia and not ecstasy.
Ten is a strange suspended cinematography, the incongruous melody that brings you home. Once again, Little Thumb is safe.
What a record!!! There are all the sounds of the city of the unconscious. Crackles, toy instruments, bells, hidden voices, terrifying single-chord trails.
Hyde is a punk warrior, Jekyll the spirit of the woods. And this wonder is my current island of sound.
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