And then it happens, you know, that one night you raise your eyes and look at the stars in the sky.

You are alone, in an old countryside, you look at them and they look at you, in silence, distant.

You light a cigarette, it helps you think better, or at least not to get lost, but even so, you can't articulate your thoughts. Certain vastnesses are too boundless to be contained, and you remain mute, listening to the crickets around you.

When you start to hear them tell stories, the stories are so ancient that you can only distinguish their faint reflection in a silent flicker. Adam Wiltzie and Brian McBride, one night about ten years ago, decided to capture this reflection, close their eyes, and transcribe these stories into sound.

What emerged was a double album of pure and ethereal ambient, never banal nor forced, but constantly capable of catapulting you to sideral distances, if not to abyssal depths, where you can pause to meditate a little and, why not, enjoy the view.

And after having explored the immensity, the sound of the stars under the eyelids comes to an end, and tired and weary, it falls asleep, giving way to another warm morning; but this, as they say, is another story.

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