The drum pulse is so deep as to seemingly originate within me, like a heartbeart knocking on the wall of the womb, as electronics hit my retina as indulgent, shapeless wash of vibrant colour. Sensation swirls around me like liquid in transit. I am the only fixed element in Breaking The Circle Of Life, which only starts to feel pleasurable once I cease to push against it; I let myself fall limp and sink, as a stone descending into the well of the self.
I reach the deepest point on “The Wheel Of Ixiom Stands Still”, which is like a techno club experienced through a coma; blurred throbs of synthetic symphony pushing through the plasma of unconsciousness, the tempo slowing to match my own resting pulse rate. Repetition patiently urges me to look at the melody again and again. Slowly I appreciate how the voices slink upward like wands of chimney smoke, and how the wall of organ drone is comprised is several different wavy lines, and how light glints through the slithers of space that lie between them. There are bass tones but it’s possible that I’m imagining them – they don’t ground the music but rather simple tilt the airborne substances, painting melody with the grace of an index finger swiped through the air.