It was the fall of 2019, 7am, and I was lying on my livingroom floor with friends. The party we'd been at had been shut down by the cops just when it was getting good, and we all felt a little forlorn. I put on my cooldown playlist as we chatted away our bundles of leftover energy. An hour in, well-situated in our relaxation, Manium came up with the sun in a perfect confluence of set and setting. Our conversation fell to the side, leaving the four of us sat in silence as the sound washed over us.

Each element in the track builds in overlapping waves, where sometimes I'm not sure if anything's changed, until I'm certain it has. The tone is neither bright or dark, but aloof and impersonal. It's less like an emotion and more like an event, a glowing intensity, a majestic significance. Is it the sound of a dying god, or the birth of a new sun? Am I nearing the top of a great, windy mountain, or am I falling into a gaping chasm? Through its act of patient creation it makes the impossible feel plausible, even bringing it nearly close enough to touch. Its peak is slow and cacophonous, just boiling over before quickly receding into silence. In the end, I feel lucky to have witnessed this galactic cataclysm.

All the angst of lost potential from a night cut short was dwarfed in the shadow of supernatural magnificence. I felt cleansed and humbled, glowing with appreciation for a moment that wouldn't have happened if I'd had my way with the world.