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Music to stare at the pale full moon to and watch the whispy elusive phantom fumes come off your cigarette and remember the people you’ve known, particularly briefly, the ones that have come and gone, crossed paths with. Now they are memories, phantoms – isn’t that what we end up being – imprints on one another. Shadows being cast on walls, long after the person casting is gone themselves. There is beauty there and something unsettling. At once ephemeral and yet numinous. Named after constellations, then becoming in turn, constellations ourselves.
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