Seven achingly beautiful personal mantras for anyone who has ever wanted to stare into the sun painlessly; rapturous cumulus emanating from the third eye of Vancouver’s Amir Abbey (also of Solars). There is a solatium to those who would wander through these insanely dense places: more always lying in the vast periphery, hazily unfolding horizons on the edges of perception. I promised myself that I would get through this without relying on Popol Vuh references, but I dare you to get through The Silent March without picturing Kinksi at the end of Aguirre, adrift in his search for El Dorado and in the process of being swallowed up by his environment.