It was a rainy New England May when two old friends, an actor and a shut in, reconvened on a couple of songs recorded the year before as a distraction to a brutal icey Febuary. Together they shaped through sound the character of Pyotr, a comatose cosmonaut hovering through the ether. Embracing the kitsch and cliches the two spent a handful of weeks exploring the dark isolation of a sleeping mind. There in the twinkling nothing above the two sought to channel the sound of spaceships, dreams, fondness and loss. Between the blurred lines of reality, sleep, character and catharsis there is a twisted shell of a man whose pulse is digital and whose blood is borrowed from his creators. And now, years later, others began to operate the machines that control Pyotr's breath and life.