MOSS is a flashing perimeter. 19 minutes of electronics rendered in a dazzle of alternating colours and lights. Movement and illumination cradling an empty centre. The synthesisers are spatially arranged into a living sphere, stimulated by the pattering rhythm that presses itself upon the air. The shape persists even as Inaya Natë changes how it is adorned, from staccato blips to soft smears to dewy chimes, and even as she tilts the harmonic mood from quiet curiosity to quivering calm. Melody is never explicitly stated but triangulated through what Natë makes available. Again, the centre is implied by the outline, like the Papier-mâché residue of a balloon long since popped. It therefore feels apt that this music should feel generative, as though there were an algorithm, or perhaps a subconscious flow state, outwardly scattering her compositional gestures and concealing the act of instigation within the endless rebound of consequence. The source is no longer physically present, yet everything on MOSS points back to it.