From AR53... In Dream, time passes. Perhaps you study for weeks, perhaps a year. Little matters as you begin to embody chillness itself. As you listen, the sepia light blurs, while the furniture seems to relax and let out a sigh of relief. A drizzle pours outside of the room, and the lights of the cityscape have become imperceptibly dim. The music has begun to morph and change. Countless notebooks litter your desk, but you have long been unable to understand the words they contain. The cat that sits on your windowsill is nowhere to be seen — perhaps you have studied for even longer still. Relaxation has permeated this room even further, diffusing through its floors and soaking into its very essence. The furniture around you succumbs to rot and rust. The wilted plants on your desk burst from their pots with mould and damp. Your writing-hand skeletonises before you, but still there is work to be done. As your concentration turns to a fervour, languages, alien and ancient, unravel along the scrawled pages under your pen. Your knowledge seems limitless, and yet somehow there is nothing left to recall. Outside the window, the night reveals that the sun will no longer rise. Your beats are chill.