His music feels like a waking sleep – that limbo space before you fall fully asleep, when your body has already begun to shut down. It's that space where images start appearing on the back of your eyelids – not an entire dream, just flashes of symbolic scenes and autonomous shapes.

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Normally this place is transitory – you're passing between wake and sleep. Instead of just passing through, though, listening to his music feels like existing here, in what feels to me like an empty, dark infiniteness. Floating, sinking, no control over which direction you're going, surrounded by the dark – but there's an odd sense that walls surround you, even though you can't see them.

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A numbness and amnesia, but also the lingering sense that something came before this. You might even be wearing familiar clothes. Something had, at some point, thrust you here, though it's long forgotten now. And although you don't know where you are, there's something pleasant about it. Subconsciously, you've developed an irreverence toward reality, given that this actually feels like relief from its constantly overwhelming, confrontational personality.

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The discomfort is comfortable, and that is uncomfortable. A familiar cognitive sickness. A warm unsettling in the stomach. Reality is, in many ways, a bummer, but we live on. All of this was, and probably only could be, conveyed without words.