There's something that's tearing at us in these Wymond Miles songs. We're getting worked over. We're hanging on for dear life as the shadows are creeping in, stubbing out their cigarette butts on our forearms and thighs. We know we shouldn't be taking all of this tortuous treatment, but we look around for help, for any kind of assistance and we realize that we've locked ourselves in a dark room with these beasts and this paranoid maniac, which is mostly just the voice of this San Francisco songwriter. We'll come out of the box with gnarly scratches up and down our arms and the burn marks will be quite pronounced. A button or two will be ripped off. We will feel ravaged. We already do feel that way. These shadows know what they're doing. The moon that's hanging above these shadows it's fathered looks as if it's bleeding out the side. It wants you to know that you should be on edge. You might even be in the way and you should look behind you…like…NOW! Your skin feels crawly and your migraines don't seem to be dying down any. Everything's become a little unchained, but it's been "wild from the start," as Miles sings on, "Passion Plays," so it's just a matter of riding and surviving it out.