There is a ceaseless low frequency that rushes throughout the cavern flooding its networks of rock tunnels and clearings with a snarling hunger. A famine twisted, and enflamed by the mass of bodies in heat that are as voracious as they are certain that the cave holds them. Ernest cannot shake his habit for exploring these dark corridors, the low frequencies. He is intimately familiar with the cragged walls - they seem to split more after each pass through - and that glowing amber resin that seeps out the eroding surface crystallizes in sharp stalactites, “sonic depositions” he calls them. This is his home outside of the metropolis and he has given a name to all that can be named. It is his solitary system of pleasure. An undulating sonic ocean. Having spent enough time under the surface, Ernest has effectively split his world in two, each owing to and borrowing from the other, inextricably connected but hopelessly ruled by their own laws. On the streets of the metropolis, Ernest is plagued by a hidden desire that he manages via a domicile career in “service”, giving himself recklessly under the glorious sunlight of day. He says that breaking himself into pieces is the only way to treat the malady of his desire, giving the parts to anyone remotely ready to receive it. And in the cavern he engorges himself, growing larger than his own vessel, swollen by the ocean of pleasure.