You’re on a hike through a mass of yellowing wheat fields. The stretch is set on a slight incline. You’re swept up by a sirocco—hot, singeing winds—and individual strands of wheat flutter in your face. They have a dizzying, mirage-like quality to them. You’ve just finished the most demanding leg of the journey and home is close enough for you to feel confident in thugging out the rest. On top of it all, a dull, psychedelic high tugs at your temples. But your mind is strangely coherent.
This song feels like waking up from the most torrential yet cathartic fever dream. Immediately after gaining consciousness, you find yourself wading in a cove that feels familiar. The first glints of sunrise hit the water and dapple the waves, rendering them fluorescent and glassy. You possess these sad, melancholic yearnings—just beyond the reach of perception. But this unknowing doesn’t bother you because it would feel almost unnatural if you could name them.