V

New Exsomnus. A new inner withdrawal. A deeper retrenchment inside the foam and the abyss of dying days, a zone where one does not truly exist anymore, reduced to an automaton repeating pre-ordered gestures, movements inherited rather than chosen. A search conducted with the mind elsewhere, drifting, for new sonic paradigms. It unfolds through field recordings gathered during a slow wandering inside the first white storm of November, inside those vaporous comas where one lies stranded like a millenary wreck, unable to impose order on the other storm, the one raging endlessly inside the skull. An anti-music that is neither hostile nor joyful. Neither confrontational nor conciliatory. It claims nothing, demands nothing, resists nothing. Except absence. -Sir Kuliktavikt