A new Microphones album consisting of one long song. Here is a poem about it: The old smell of air coming faintly through the spring crack in the snow above a hibernating bear�s winter den, the smell of long self-absorption, burrowing into one�s own chest, re-breathing the exhales of one�s own breath, the smell of squinting in the dark ruminating in dreams beneath layering years, the snow still falling. In the dark smoldering slowly burning through all the old clothes, sifting through the ash, wiping old shedded fur from the eyes nosing out into the light. In that brief moment when the airs of the past and present meet, at the mouth of the open bed, egoic solidity burns away in the spring wind, self becomes fuel, there is only now and the past is a dream burning off. Fragments arranged along the trail, crumbs consumed, dust blown, no route back.