What will emanate with the rising of the fifth age?. Solely questions never to be answered or a manifestation so sacredly tuned as we cannot help be awed by it. Lost in the moment and instinctively unfettered.

No thoughts, just a shared recognized tune rendered to the synesthesia of colours swirling. Lost in three days dark of the void being retuned to a new harmonic. The four points of pyramid raise to birth the octahedral hum of heavenly choir.

Will we remember as the astral tour buses disgorge their thousands to help suffuse the tune into the new aether. Chronos will smile and cease his toil. All will be amazed, with not a critic amongst them.

The spheres will resonate the footsteps which syncopate the beats of all hearts. He who is She pads its feet through the corridors of the maternity ward of virgin birth.

All sense is suspended, all disbelief rendered inconsequential. There are no words. Words are the mother of lies and collection of dues. Here there are pictures pure and unfettered by interpretation. They are hung in music. Suspended by the mathematical precision that is only heard once an age.

Make sure to have tickets and no back stage passes. The moment will be forgotten, but forever etched on our collective souls.

Three nights only. No warm up acts.
Pure intent and purer beats.