Return to valley and to stale air - you're home, it's quiet, and it hits you hard - right between the eyes. A creeping turnover from inspiration to despair reaches a completion. Where there were once island gardens and brand new melodies and glowing idyllic future tenses projected onto the present, there is now just a small empty room. Awake from dreams, the conscious ability for grandiose self-delusion has waned and you can clearly see there is nothing there - no matter where you look or what you do. Past actions feel supremely stupid, especially those desperate inventions haphazardly arranged and employed to keep the most incredible imaginary things afloat. All your information and observations - an entire perspective rendered false, like that of fast, sleek, unsinkable luxery liners in 1912. Springtime. Icebergs. Beautiful lunatic ideas that bloom fast and fade - numbed, pruned and discarded. Save remaining seeds for summer harvest.