We have been here before. One too many times as of late. Counting sheep on the minute. Losing sleep over teeth. Ticking. Oil slick eyes, glazed over from failing to calibrate the master clock. The cipher of our mechanistic nature. Delicately woven into fine fiber, molding our cerebral being. Careful we are not to wipe out the material traces of our memory, for fear of death. When we fall into the rhythm, break into the tempo. We choose to feed the demon, or manifest the god within. Made with oats. Double dry-hopped with Citra, Motueka, Idaho Gem, and Simcoe hops.