For as long as I can remember I have been obsessed with The Dream. From where do they come? For what reason?
Dreams of all kinds is what separates us living things from those which are not - even single celled organisms sleep - who knows what they with their tiny brains imagine during their wind downs. Do trees dream of a gentle wind and a strong rain? Do coral dream the monoclonal dreams of a sea calm and warm, forever? 
Would aliens dream?

If one does not sleep and does not dream we become unhinged, our dream become our waking life - perhaps we do not dream because we sleep but sleep because we need to dream. Perhaps it is essential to consciousness. Perhaps without dreaming we cannot think at all.

To remember is like a dream. You do not remember an event, you remember a feeling which is itself a memory of that feeling. Everytime you remember you break apart that memory and re-build it again.

We share dreams, you hear about them all the time: The American Dream, The Dream of a better tomorrow, The Nightmare of history, The Dream of progress, The Dream of Jacob or of The Pharaoh or The Dream of Reality. We live in a dream, the world we see is created for us like a dream by our minds and we live within The Dream and interface with The Dream. The Dream is how we make sense of the world, it's how we perceive it. Our rods and cones and the cells in our nose and skin do not show us reality but tell it to us in The Dream. When we are newborn and in the womb the veil between awake and asleep is almost not there at all, life is like a blur of colour and sound, unknowable except through dreaming, waking and asleep. We grow weary when we cannot dream, when we are not allowed to dream our soul becomes tired and unhinges. Without dreaming we die.

We are told in school and in books of the indigenous of this wonderful Australia having their creation myth mantled within the Dreamtime. The time of all creation and of all one's ancestors all of one's descendants. The perpetually present dream of time. I know nothing of the Dreamtime but that it's only close rival to the most beautiful creation is Tolkien's songs of creation. It is the Dreamtime that is the ultimate creative force and source that all things return to. We are born, we dream, we die, we dream. Life and death themselves are kinds of dreams, are they not? 

For many years my dreams were filled with geometric solids, the strongest being The Obelisk. It lives within me, like a silent orchestra, their instruments at the ready, the baton held high. I can see my reflection in it now, silvery and pale. They are cast toward the sun as the sun cast it toward us. I can almost hear them as I walk past them in the street with the words "Lest we forget" engraved into them, as if the war they commemorate is like a dream and if we don't write it down and remind ourselves of it by reading it again and again and again and again we would forget it and shrug amd repeat the horrible nightmare of the 20th century. Yes, everytime I see them I feel an argute humming between my eyes and between my lungs.

So I dream them, I see them in endless gray, or through windows, slowly moving forward as if my Dream-eye is on the dolly like a Kubrick film, silently moving toward the chasm of unknown. I see them over the horizon like a great beast, silently watching, or underwater, causing giant waves and storms to batter the coast of the towns I distinctly remember from my deep youth, or through the archway to the rose garden I never entered, or growing from the dust of the barren nile, as if its anger forced itself through my memory back home, or peppered throughout the stone city, their mysterious humming a reminder of a past we have forgotten but which is always on the tips of all our tongues.

---

This album is the work of a decade of songwriting and of production nearly as long. If you are reading this you probably appear somewhere in the album as a sonderous extra or as a main character.

Conclusion

Alaric

Apollo

Shiva

Interlude3 (Dedicated to Steve Roach)

Interlude1 (Wind through Trees)

V1
The points of light against the night sky
Meeting the headlights of horizon
Feel the slow hot wind of midsummer
Blowin' across the trees and up the road

I wanna be at yours, I wanna get to yours, more, by the minute
I wanna, god willing, find a warn bed with you in it

-

V2
The seasons come and go by the second
The sprits that dwell there abode and bide
Shining eyes emerge and dissolve
We watch from the bed through the window of the house on the mountainside
It snows and it melts, it's hot then it rains
We can't see his face, we can't see his face

-

B
At once
The meadow
became
A million blade of green

Academy

Warm Bed:Seasons Of The Forests

Someone Has To

V
We swim upon the currents of the crowd
Everything alight by lanterns all around
I can still remember every single sound
I remember I didn't choose to stick around

Who knows where we'd be if I'd come along
The theory I have is we stayed not long
We watch the fire ceremony
The trees alight, Minerva sees

-

C
As I was a walkin' 'neath the green tree
There was you (Living misdirection)
Contrasted against the jaspered sky
Crescent moon (Living misdirection)
Living in the afterglow
Watching rosy Dawn
First of the year.

V
The next time which we met there came a flash
The life I'd lived met the other I'd had
An instant passed I saw them interract
But they left each other with but a glance

I know I shouldn't think this way, and yet
I wonder still and live without regret
How would it be? How would it feel?
To turn back time, to festival?

C

Living Misdirection

Glass Tulips

I was born on an asteroid made from the moons of jupiter

Waspy Synth

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