Stripped back and bony funk. The residue and distant memories of a party. Closing your eyes, still not dark. A lighting rig under your lids. A night lasting 20 years, falling asleep with your favourite song on repeat. The deconstructed, untangled memory lingers in your system. What you hear are the remnants of a social gathering and its body movements. KMOS. The fog machines are gone, the free deconstructed thinking laid out bare. Fourth album. The white noise funk still here, 4 to the floor and gnarly basslines. The jazz but the tight, the funk but the taut. The austere but the flow. The instruments, sinuous and intricate. The deconstructed dancefloor. Sawed up bits, sawed up pieces. The drums the strings the claps the sharpness. Rearranged, picked apart. organized for a new day. A new idea. A new blueprint. A brave new clear elusive promise. The love in the strict. The strict but the mess. The strict but the lie. A promise. Drifting through a sleepless world. The rent, the eyes, the mirror the scrolling the daylight, and the gravel in your eyes. Sounds of endless nights long lasting days, reality and visions, blurred and frazzled. The eavesdropping the neighbour the conversations the sleep. The fear and the joy and the new that I project onto you. The loopy sound of sirens. The joy of the sun. The field, the horizon, the light, the smoke. Xeroxed memories are now our new. The love the dream. The sleep the wake. The wish the longing. The promise the fear. What once was promised