Sir This Is A Cutthroat Fashion

Through the rustling of rain and the blurred cacophony of guitars, a strange film emerges - either a road with ghosts or dreams on the verge of insomnia. Words cling together in fragments: ‘take the child away,’ ‘pack up the tears,’ ‘I don't want to wake up.’ Everything seems to be said half a second later than it should be, and that makes it all the more disturbing.

The music whispers, then presses down with heat, and in this heat you hear not summer, but fever. It's unclear where the end is, where the beginning is, but one thing is clear: this is the soundtrack to a night in which any ‘I'm sorry’ sounds like the last word.