A voice so low the house hums in agreement. But it's not a voice. Not a voice of reason. A quartet of the pine, the glass, the brick, the spine. Almost tangible words and nearly tangible phrases lead way to invisible scrapes and slowly healing abrasions. We're all choosing and losing. We're all cruising for a bruising. We've all chosen and lost. There is nothing in this box - just a head we're trapped in. Can you hear it? Can you feel it cracking?
Гуру Песен