There's a thought, within the contours of some of these Pacific Air songs, that would lead one to believe that being cast away, on an unmanned boat, set adrift to the far horizon, would be the ideal way to collect yourself and get to a more stabilized frame of mind. You could cleanse. You could wash out all of the fog and the exhaust and you could become what you need to become. You could shake the fleas off, work the kinks out of your muscles, the grease into your hair, figure it all out and then light the flares when you think you might like to regain civilization. They could tow you in, if you give them the signal. You just might not want to. You might never want to integrate back into this madhouse. It's just too relaxing out there, undulating and being quickly forgotten. It's not that bad. It could easily be worse.
Pacific Air coaxes us into this sweet spot, where contemplation is possible, where we need it to get by. You're not going to accomplish it many other ways. The signals are so easily scrambled and distorted. Distortion is a bedfellow that we're hardly ever surprised to brush hairy legs with in the thicket of the night. It's hard to shake it off or away. You can get so damned lost, so damned easily. It's a miracle when you surface. You keep aging and thinking about aging, wondering how anyone gets through it. There are the feelings that it's not worth it - that it would be better to just fade. Here, they sing, "I don't want to be young/But I don't want to die/I can whisper in the wind/We can smoke out every night/I don't want to live alone/I don't want to stay inside/I can learn from my mistakes/In the morning, I'll be right," on "Float," and we're there with them. In the morning, we'll be right.