A cathedral is what happens when people build something too large to fill.
The congregation is gone. The pews are empty. The rose window still throws colour across the flagstones at midnight because the moon does not care whether anyone is watching. And somewhere in the vaulting, a sound that might be an organ or might be the building itself, a low, steady hum that has been going on long enough to become architecture.
This is two hours of that. No lyrics. No shifts. A deep drone, a choir so distant it could be memory, and the kind of silence that only exists in rooms built for a thousand voices and occupied by none.
It was made for reading that asks something of you: the books that are not easy and are not trying to be.
