She is the Moon soothed by the ancient lullaby of the Supernal Mother. An array of brightly coloured pebbles lie at her feet, a diadem of daffodils and dream-bits on her head, and a collection of reasonably priced records on her lap. She turns her gaze towards you, eyes filled with the howl of countless centuries and offers you an LP from her pile.

“Here, shove this on. It’s the new Purplehands. It’s class like.”

The record in question is ‘Intimate Fades’, an emotive meander through zones of bleepy ambient techno by way of electro, passing by sonic monuments to the likes of Golding and Rutter as it floats from A to B. In some distant, alternate universe the tracks on this LP soundtrack some 8-bit hero’s journey, a quest compelled by a sombre determination and Purplehands’ stylized sonic ruminations.

It is but the first star in an unfolding cosmos, mapped out to us by the High Priestess in her infinite wisdom.