Thus we searched for strange maps; maps which described not physical properties of the known world but the shadow world, wading not through accepted history, but through accepted mythology.

We sought the stories of the old ones. We recorded the lies told in prisons and mental institutions, guided by the sexual fantasies of the dangerously deviant, walking from dream to dream, recording every distortion: shadows that move within a blink, the dissolution of the world as we fall asleep, the dissolution of time as we begin to wake up.

Those became our stepping-stones. And madness. Yes, madness. Those were the definitions of our maps for a long, long time: lies, distortions, inaccuracies, old-wives tales, intentional lies, honest beliefs, and entertaining mythologies.

Songs and dreams, they created a vast wasteland, a desert made of sand. We started to chart the territories where this sand had congealed into miles and miles of glass, forming illusory cities made not of glass itself but of the reflection of the moon upon the glass.