raven has hungarian trance coursing through her veins and in every fluid motion. but each thought is jarring to every motion. and so the wires uncross and the pulsing slows and the mind is frozen half way through an unfinished idea of incinerated innocence. now each extension of her arms and fingers is unhindered by reconsiderations and apprehensions because the music is all that matters. one sliver of clouded daylight climbs through a slit in the screen into a room otherwise charred black. the crack of glow sticks and nothing but two hands illuminated in toxic green flow and barefeet on a wooden dance floor. every movement a rhythmic result of sensations triggered by electronic stimulation. the one track album is on repeat.