There is a silence that is as loud as thunder, a silence that is as thick as quivering lips moving to the intonement of chants and spells - "bind my lover to me". There is a circle in our midst, it is silent and it weaves, it binds us and it strangles us. It is both the circle of life and the circle of the cosmic illusion, broken but real. Those circles work across bodies, minds and scapes. When moorland is tender it is also stark. Hawthorns spike into the thick grey sky. There's always a slide in progress, always a slide between worlds, between realities sought and discarded. Circles within circles, silence and more. Bells jangle in the wind, bones snap, the world stretches taught. There are whispers, there are chants, there is breath and there is mumbling. The sky cracks, reality is wrent, and visions begin to vomit forth. There is a man with no shadow, there is a mouth without a face. There are children with no hands, and eyes with no vision. There are circles within circles, and there are circles without. All is a cacophony of sound...and all is perpetual silence. The moon is a witch, a void with no reality.