A city. Night. Yellow light slices through narrow shades, pooling on a keyboard. Tendrils of steam curl up from a black coffee and are disrupted by a hand reaching out of the shadows to depress a key. Pliant sine waves of cerulean umami permeate the room. No one hears it. The steam coalesces into transient forms in tempo with the sub, spelling out deep wisdom in languages forgotten or not yet invented. The universe tilts an arcsecond. Unpronounceable and with a probably unhealthy penchant for minor 7th chords, [,j first exploded onto the scene in 2015, but the 18th century landscape revival scene wasn’t ready for [,j’s sick beats and deft tonework, and so [,j remains an enigma, stumbled upon, as if by accident, in the solitary watches of the night, subtly altering the weft of reality.