In his mind, he isn't in a sweat-slicked room in East London. He is ten years old again, standing on the jagged cliffs of the Antrim coast. The air is cold enough to sting, smelling of salt and wet heather.
He is holding a spool of nylon string. Above him, a kite—bright, neon orange against a bruised purple sky—is fighting the gale. It doesn't fly; it screams. It’s a frantic, beautiful tension, a thin line being pulled between the earth and the infinite. Thump. Thump. Thump. BICEP | KITES
The kick drum brings him back. The track, "Kites," begins to soar, those airy, ethereal vocal chops swirling above the bassline. Elias feels that same tension now. He looks around the dancefloor and sees dozens of others, arms raised, eyes closed, all tethered to the same frequency. In his mind, he isn't in a sweat-slicked room in East London