There is a time of year in England when cold dewy mornings spar with the low crisp sun, and as you squint towards it the resulting mist creates a shadow play whose scrip is writ only by your imagination of the world beyond. It is a time and moment of your keeping.
Dedicated to the late musician Harold Budd, whose piece 'Late October' so beautifully captures the essence of that time and space, not intruding upon that imagination, only embellishing it.