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Who sleeps does not catch fish simply because their consciousness—liquefied—already contains them all.
There is deep sleep and there are the moments that precede waking.
When a dark synth loop keeps the wonder of personality adrift, but the body turns on the bed as if on a makeshift raft.
When analog itches begin to tease still-closed eyelids, but muted vocal samples unravel the fade out of a dream through the unknown language of fantastic creatures.
And then the eyes open.
The heaviness of being, which somehow must always be supported, does not take long to manifest, but there is something else before that.
There is us and there are the moments that precede us, those where consciousness—awake, yet gaseous—floats near the ceiling awaiting its daily solidification.
When infinite possibilities, infinite distorting mirrors, infinite hidden paths whirl in the room composing the collage of all possible remodulations of the self.
When a mesmerizing and hypnotic lullaby guides us through a viscous network of string instruments until a precise mesh traps our wandering hum.
And the half-hour of the piece closes, carrying with it its mysterious aura reminiscent of the most inspired, allusive Machinefabriek, devoted to field recording.
And then the eyes open. Definitively.
But daily life, like a spider, is already devouring our wings.
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