The way I see it, I'm on the wrong side of the glass right now. It must be my problem and no one else's, though, I realize that so many more people than just myself are looking out from the wrong side of the window as well and there's no easy way to get over to the other side. Not yet, at least, there isn't. We have to get done what we have to get done, but what's seen out there eats at me. I'm somewhere not at all pastoral, not at all idyllic, but planted along the outskirts of this massive urban parking lot is a solid line of trees, with a pale blue canopy of sky and city-sized clouds ambling along as if they'd just eaten a thousand Thanksgiving dinners. There's no air-conditioning out there and, for me, that's usually a plus. It's summer. We're supposed to be sweating, most of the time. It's not supposed to be uncomfortable, but we are supposed to be glistening and salty. There's a persistent wind coursing invisibly through the air, shoving the trees back and forth, making them all look as if they're trying to shoo away swarms of mosquitoes with dozens of thin arms. The pine trees in the line are refusing the wind's advances, holding its ground, but the other trees are being abused. If this glass could be reduced to dust and the parking lot, the restaurants and cars smashed down into their original materials -- the rock and water, the wood, the chemicals and metals -- and placed back the way they used to be, undisturbed, and all that was left were the trees, us and the wind fussing with the lot, it's where Denton, Texas's Seryn would have us concentrate. We could all sit there together, but in silence, letting the hot sunsets and warm dawns fall over us like theater lights. Our skin gets sticky without us really knowing it and suddenly we realize that we've all gotten a little older together, even if it's just a few hours. We realize that, together, we've all moved into a blank night, the air temporarily more flattering and agreeable. The band, with its lush arrangements and thoughtfully haunting, often mesmerizing flings puts us into wonderfully open-ended, ponder-some thoughts. We're able to detach ourselves from so many of the stupid dramas and burdens that we heap ourselves with. Our shoulders often feel as if they weigh a million pounds and with the group's debut full-length, "This Is Where We Are," we're given a chance to be blissfully unaware of where this is, where we actually exist. We could be somewhere where we believe these winds originated, somewhere we'll never be.