So, about that time you fell from the sky. You let yourself fall, you freaky fucker, because it felt freeing to put your fist in the air and let it hit a grand total of nothing. Fighting with fisiticuffs against life felt like freedom, until you walked away bloody a too few many times from its expert headbutting abilities. Martial law is only fun if you’re the powerful one, and that’s a laughable opinion to have yourself against the foe of life.

In Florrie’s world, when the pressure rises in your head, you free fall. You’ve done it countless times–it’s how you change course. By way of her sumptuosly dark beats that act much like the dancefloor antithesis  to Tourist’s “I Have No Fear”, freedom is fraught with terror. But you’d have it no other way, because you don’t need to be on a plane to feel the peril of your mind, only in a club awaiting yourself to burst out into a fit of fancy of furious footwork towards your new life.

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