In its grip.
Whilst we grip it.
In our minds, whilst we walk, talk and sit.
Forever now,
In our Crooked necks.
Infinite minutes.
Infinite checks.
For still is not still
And this box cannot be shut.
Space is full and the strings that pull,
Cannot be cut.
If. How. When.
We do put it down
We remember then.
There's another reality,
To which we are bound.

In a realm between the smoke and the hills, Azrak melted and moulded genres together. He cast four tracks that appear as mongrels, born as tempo crossing bastards, ready to join the other incarnations dwelling in the grey metasphere.