Until we be cast off into pasture. When the momentary inclinations inside paint us to the path of the feeble-minded. There is a place where concern frees us from the frustration of unstimulated periods of silence. A place where peace finds no home. Where we are captivated by the lullaby of grief we have found. An homage to the artistic evolution of our Forestry Camp facility and taproom. Mashed with loads of oats and candi sugar. Whirlpooled with Citra Cryo, Incognito, and some Motueka. Triple dry-hopped with Citra and Sabro, and hit with some Citra Cryo.