Ellen Allien's Berlinette is a record for staring at the pale full moon whilst watching the wispy, elusive phantom fumes come off your cigarette.

You can think of and just barely recall all the people that you’ve known, particularly briefly, the ones that have come and gone, the ones with whom you have crossed paths in the night.

Now they are become themselves memories, phantoms – for isn’t that what we all end up being – imprints on one another for better or for worse, and likely for both.

In the end, all that remains of people are shadows cast on distant walls, long after the people casting them have passed into the past. There is beauty in this and yet also something unsettling. It is at once ephemeral and yet numinous. We, who were named after constellations, thusly are predestined to one day soon become constellations ourselves.