At the heart of the piece lies a fragmented, typewritten poem:

“Some thing in the air hangs lower
like fruit on a limb.
Teetering on the edge of flight, I head home.
The night will cover our talk of the past,
With anonymous masks, of who we used to be.”

The interplay between the structured mathematical precision of the musical notation and the raw, tactile nature of the hand-drawn figures, plus the lyrical prose suggests a tension between the public performance of identity and the private, often melancholic, reality of human connection.