Ian Wyatt is sitting in front of me, and he is interested in doing away with the binding sense of having to sit still, my stillness, the stillness of the entire room. I can tell this because of the way he speaks, as if the show really is a conversation — but does it have to be one? I want to yell back at him. Surely, I have something to do with this subtle tearing apart of convention. And yet, as I sit here with my right hand wound tightly around another’s left, I am grinning, but silent. But that boy! He carries on as if I had spoken to him, like the others have, the brave ones, and he rocks back and forth like an animal.

The songs Wyatt plays reach for midnight, reach for the space that runs between the days, seeping from darkness on forth into light. I can not help but wonder why it takes so long to hear the audience chime in with a chorus of support. He sits there, only him and his guitar, and in the silence I think I hear an invisible multitude answering him back — knowing all the words — and I am one of them. Although this display is a destruction of the things etched upon us, it is also a physical manifestation of what lays beneath.

And then there is Kellarissa. She is small and sits behind what looks like a large set of keys. Her words I do not know, but I cannot know them — they are of a different tongue, an unfamiliar one. Perhaps she is from a different world. I could almost convince myself of her otherness, were it not for the music — reminiscent of a god, and punctuated by slight profanity directed at malfunctioning foot pedals. However, the magnification of her voice­ seems to border on the unholy — as if there truly is chorus, a choir, a floor full of women possessed, looping round her in collapsing circles. The woman concocts a sound that calls for frankincense and myrrh. Nearing the abrupt end of her ceremony, a final lashing out at electricity and faulty communication wires offers a small hint of her vulnerability, despite the presence she has filled the room with. I find the myself filled with that presence, even still. I am compelled to admit that her songs have become a part of me — the way my hand still weaves tightly around that of the boy near me.