If you stare too far into the distance, you’ll only see the curvature of the universe in the carbon copy of the back of your own head. Sixteen Fingers is the echo chamber of this no-good place. Synth movements in alabaster and latex, creeping in over the flickering broadcast news. Long distant wars with oil-fields aflame and images projected on the city walls. We broke the transmission you know? took down the towers, killed the guards, left to backwoods areas. I don’t think this is music any more, it’s the underworld, the place of glooms.