Stories like drops of water—the water sounds like the water in Tarkovsky’s Stalker.
Stories without beginning or end. Memories of memories, some are yours and some belong to others. Glimmering impressions of pasts, presents, and futures that might be or might have been come like watching a film on a broken projector. Maybe this isn’t the first, or the original, of this sequence and maybe it won’t be the last. A saxophone sings throughout it is your Virgil in this musical expanse, endless and uncanny the journey must continue through each iteration: a burst or a flicker, a drop or a torrent.
Stories of echoes, ballads of the spaces between spaces, a collection of recursive narratives. Bass, drums, keys, guitars, reeds, a bouzouki: these are your travel companions and their voices paint the world as it unfolds before you in all its strangeness, beauty, and terror. And you’ll realize, with their help, that you are perhaps more lost than found, that what appears simple is endlessly complex, that within the cosmic static there lies the hum of truth, that nothing is ever just anything. … and eventually you’ll realize that the road turns into itself after the first thousand miles.
