its a modern circus about turning cast iron keys bearing your stubborn anvil stake, as coy dragon crawls across your face drawing out all the rain, subscribing to the foolish love of holding on to everything. but its balanced and transgresses back and forth across the divide between night and day, that elusive horizon of where you're never placed no i just think of the days in terms of pages i've never read, then you assume a place in front of an emerald slate letting go of everything.